


Stitches

by Curstaidh_MacIntyre



Series: Stitches [1]
Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Return to Treasure Island (TV 1996)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hospital, M/M, Rating May Change, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2020-01-15 08:13:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18494950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curstaidh_MacIntyre/pseuds/Curstaidh_MacIntyre
Summary: Gathering FiKi 2019Prompt #109 - StitchesJim is an Emergency Room doctor who isn't interested (he has good reasons), and Ross is a persistent, accident prone frequent flyer.-----TBC - This was planned as a oneshot. Thanks to islandkate for the encouragement and the plot bunny!





	1. Chapter 1

_Mid-April_

“Multiple buses with bloody bar fight victims is 10 minutes out!” Carol, Jim’s overly excited intern, shouts as she barrels down the hallway

“If you insist on barreling through the hospital like a runaway semi you could at least look where you are going!” Jim shouts after her. He does not look at her to see if his directive is followed. It never is.

He finishes his quick note in a patient’s chart and tucks the pen into his pocket. He makes his way down to the E.R. quickly, but at a much more leisurely pace than the excited interns. They are all waiting outside in the ambulance bay, their trauma gowns are flapping in the wet wind, when Jim meets them outside.

“How’s your day been so far?” Flint, one of the other E.R. doctors, asks as he elbows Jim companionably in the side when he comes and stands next to him.

“Mostly quiet until this,” Jim gestures to the crowded ambulance bay.

“Hmm,” Flint hums and nods his head. “Any exciting plans for your weekend?”

The corner of Jim’s mouth quirks in a small smile; he knows what is coming. “Mostly I’m looking forward to going home, having a drink, and sleeping until I have to be back here.”

“That’s no fun.”

“Maybe I’ll binge watch some of _Black Sails_ while I’m at it,” Jim goads.

Flint groans theatrically. “ _Nerd_.”

Jim nods, “Mmhmm.” He looks towards the entrance. He can now hear the sirens in the distance.

“Hey!” Flint smacks Jim’s arm. “I have an idea!”

Jim does not even try to hide his eye roll. This happens every time they share a weekend off. It is not a new idea. “What is it?”

“I’ve got a girl I’m meeting tomorrow evening. I’m sure she has a friend she could bring along!” Flint grins like it is the greatest idea in the world. The ambulances appear at the entrance.

“I’m sorry, Flint, I’ve got a long overdue date with my duvet,” Jim throws over his shoulder as he surges forward to meet the first ambulance. He hears Flint’s answering groan before he even finishes his sentence.

They pull the ambulance’s doors open and help pull the gurney out. “Vitals were stable in the field, but he does have a penetrating knife wound to the abdomen, what looks like a broken hand, and a head lac.” The EMT rattles off and they push the gurney into the E.R.

“Sir, how’s your vision? Any black spots? Any blurriness?” Jim asks and shines his penlight into the man’s eyes. The man tries to shake his head, but is prevented from doing so by the cervical collar.

“No,” he croaks. “But I do want to kick the ass of the sonufabitch that brought a knife to a fist fight.” He groans.

“Pupils are reactive, keep an eye on that, and get a C.T. if anything changes.” Jim tucks the penlight away. He can hear a similar process being carried out behind him with other patients. “Get his registration info and then he should be sent into surgery to take care of his abdomen.”

Jim turns and leaves the nurses to their jobs obtaining vitals like blood pressure and heart rate. Those will be added to the information provided by the EMTs.

“Hey! Hawkins!” Dr. Silver shouts from the other side of the E.R.

“What is it?” Jim asks when he comes to stand next to Silver.

“Nothing horrible,” Silver admits looking at his patient and at the parents who are hovering nervously nearby. “I just need someone here to keep this little pirate calm,” he winks at the boy in the bed who can be no more than six, “and more importantly, I need someone who can keep his parent’s calm until an O.R. opens up for him.

“He was just about to go up, when the knife wound came it. He’s upset, his parents are a pain-in-the-arse, and my interns are shitting themselves over the abdominal surgery, and I can’t seem to get them to sit still long enough to take an interest in patient care tonight. And I’ve got to go scrub in for that surgery…”

Jim nods quickly, “I can take care of it from here.” He pulls a stool up to the edge of the bed and pulls a deck of cards out of the pocket of his white coat.

“My name’s Jim,” he smiles at the young boy.

“Mattie,” the little blonde boy mumbles.

“Dr. Silver said that you’re a pirate; is that true?” Jim grins.

Mattie shyly nods his head. “My sword and eye patch are at home. I was stealing treasure when I hurt my leg…” his eyes start to fill with tears when he looks down at his leg.

Jim touches Mattie’s arm, “ Pirating sounds pretty dangerous. But, I know a safe pirate game that we can play until the doctors are ready for you.”

Mattie rubs his eyes and looks at Jim expectantly.

“Do you know how to play Go Fish?”

Mattie smiles.

 

***

 

A little over an hour later Mattie has been taken up to surgery and Jim has checked on the last of the check-ins from the ambulances. He’s long overdue for his 15 and he is just about to take it when he hears shouting.

“I just want to get out of here!”

“Sir, I—“ That’s Carol’s voice.

“Just give me some fucking superglue and I’ll take care of it myself! I don’t need no damn retard doing something I can do myself!”

Jim rounds the corner to the hall of exam rooms. The shouting is coming from the first one. He looking in the open door just in time to see a man with long, unruly, black curls flip the suture tray.

“I don’t need a nurse to sew me up!”

“Sir, you need to calm down!” Coral says loudly.

Jim steps in to the room. “I’ll take it from here, Dr. Carol,” Jim squeezes her shoulder in reassurance. “Go check the waiting room and see if anyone new has come in.” He sees the relief in her eyes, which are brimming with tears. He watches her leave before he turns to the patient. “As for you.”

“I’ll tell you the same thing I told that little nurse,” he snarls. “I just need to get out of here. I’m tired of answering fucking questions about where I live, do I take drugs, do I have sex with prostitutes. Jesus. Fucking. Christ. Just fix my fucking face and let me leave. You don’t need my fucking life story.”

Jim ignores the man and grabs another suture kit before sitting down on a stool. “Are you just going to bitch at me and insult my doctors? Or do you want me to keep the scarring from that,” he gestures to the long laceration running from the man’s eyebrow almost down to his jaw, which is already smeared with iodine, “minimal?” Jim raises his eyebrows.

The patient scowls darkly.

Jim takes that as a yes. He picks up the chart that Carol had abandoned. “So… Mr. Poldark—”

“It’s Ross.”

“Okay, Ross, are you allergic to anything?” Jim asks cheerfully. He clicks his pen and meets Ross’ eyes.

Ross groans and flops back on the bed. “Do whiny little bitch babies count?”

Jim cannot prevent the smile that tugs at the corner of his lips, “I’m afraid not. But, if they did, I’d be allergic to them as well.”

Interest sparks in Ross’ face. “Is there a story there?” His scowl recedes ever so slightly.

“I’m asking the questions here,” Jim shoots back. “What happen to your face?” Ross’ scowl is back in full force. “I’m only asking because I need to know if I need to check for glass in the wound, or administer extra antibiotics, or a whole host of other things.”

Ross closes his eyes and sighs. After a few moments of silence and heavy breaths, “Do you promise not to laugh?” He opens his eyes then.

“Promise,” Jim assures him. He even crosses his heart with his pen.

“Christ,” Ross groans. His head falls back against the pillow of the E.R. bed and Jim loses focus for a moment as he considers the dense curls and the red glint that they reveal in the harsh light. “Fine,” Ross grumbles. “I was at my friend’s house. We were just chilling, drinking some beers and watching some shit TV. But her dad came home early, and he’s a real fecking bastard. He doesn’t let her have anyone over. Ever. I had to leave through the window.” Ross stops.

“And that’s when you cut your face,” Jim prompts as he readies the needle.

Ross wrinkles his nose and Jim’s brain briefly short circuits. “No. I made out out the second story window just fine. She shouted after me about my walk-of-shame, I laughed and tripped over the bins in the alley. _That’s_ when I cut my face.”

The corners of Jim’s mouth twitch as he presses his lips together. “That’s … uh … that’s a bit anticlimatic.”

“Hrumph,” Ross crosses his arms as he grumbles.

“So, can we get started here?” Jim waves the needle around in his blue-gloved hands.

“I suppose so. You didn’t laugh after all.”

Jim rolls the chair close to the bed. He is about to being when Ross interrupts him.

“Is this going to hurt?”

“A bit. You’ll feel pressure and tugging.”

Ross’ face screws up into a grimace, “I don’t like needles.”

Jim suppresses his laugh; it comes out at a snort. “I promise I won’t hurt you.” For the life of him he cannot figure out what possessed him to end that sentence with a wink. But, it worked. Ross visibly relaxed a bit and let Jim get on with his work.

Thirty stitches, many flinches, and a few too many moments of Jim getting distracted by Ross’ hazel and gold eyes later, they’re finished and Jim is peeling the latex gloves off his hands. He avoids meeting Ross’ eyes, his cheeks are still flushed from the last moment of eye contact with their faces only inches apart.

“So, when can I get these out of my face, Doc?” Ross asks as he stands up and stuff his long arms into the sleeves of his jacket.

“You should make an appointment with your general practitioner for 5 days from now. He’ll be able to remove them. There is no need to come back here.”

“Hm.”

“What if I were to want to see you again?” Ross flashes a slightly feral grin.

“W-w-what?” Jim stutters at the unexpected question.

Ross moves in close and Jim stops breathing. He can only look up at the much taller man, his eyes lingering on his lips. He can feel a flush spreading up his chest, neck, and into his cheeks and ears. Ross moves in and Jim feels a shock of lightning run down his spine when Ross’ lips find his. After a moment he relaxes into the kiss. His hands find a way into Ross’ curly hair; it is as soft as he mind kept telling him it was, he groans softly. He can feel Ross’ smile against his lips. Then the kiss deepens, and Jim loses all aware of anything else except this kiss and Ross’ tongue against his own. Ross pulls Jim’s hips closer and presses his knee between Jim’s legs. He pulls away just as Jim’s knees start to go weak. Jim chases Ross’ lips; chasing the warm feeling that filled his body.

Ross’ grin is back. “I guess I’ll see you in five days then, doc.” Then he is out the door before Jim has a chance to say anything.

Jim slowly regains awareness of his surroundings and the sounds of the hospital. The electric feeling still lingers in the pit of his stomach. That’s when he sees Flint standing in the hallway with his mouth hanging open. Jim straightens his jacket, grabs the chart, and leaves the room. He leans against the nurse’s station to finish filling out the paperwork. He ignores Flint and wills his blush to go away. Neither of his efforts are effective.

“So…” Flint sidles up to him. “That explains a lot.” He grins.

“Shut up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on Tumblr where I post a variety of sneakpeeks!
> 
>  
> 
> [Writing](https://curstaidh-mcintyre-writing.tumblr.com/)  
> [Personal](https://i-am-still-bb.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim has a rough day; he and Flint talk and don't talk about a particular tall, dark, handsome stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm one chapter a head at this point. To try and keep a regular posting schedule I'm going to try a biweekly/bimonthly update. This may change if I get further ahead.
> 
> NOTE:  
> I am not a medical professional and I apologize for any errors in that regard. I owe everything I know about medicine to my mother (RN) and TV (ER, Night Shift, Grey's Anatomy, Scrubs, etc.).

“How was your date with your duvet?” Flint queries from his spot on the locker room bench.

Jim pulls a clean, dark green scrub shirt over his head. He pointedly ignores Flint’s question. He had been bombarded all weekend with texts. He had answered none of them. He had just as pointedly ignored any and all thoughts of the events from Friday night’s shift.

“Does this silent treatment mean that you had a better date? Maybe with a tall, dark, handsome stranger?”

Jim frowns. He slams the door to his locker. “I swear to God, Flint, if you ask me another question, I am going to cut off your fingers.” He turns his glare on his friend.

Flint only laughs. “That bad, eh?”

Before Flint can say anything else Jim leaves the room. The shutting door cuts off the sound of Flint’s increasing laughter. After taking reports from the doctors transitioning off—everyone was being discharged or had already been admitted—he quickly makes his way to the pit; morbidly hopping that there is something that needs to be done. If he tries to catch up on charts then Flint will find him and ask more questions.

Carol is already waiting there; she is bouncing on her toes. But the waiting room is quiet, as it normally is early on a Monday morning.

“What’s got you excited? Bruised tailbones?” Jim teases.

Carol takes a deep breath and stops bouncing. “Just a good weekend, Dr. Hawkins. And I’m excited to be here.”

Jim nods.

The resident running the E.R. hangs up a phone, “There’s a bus on its way in with a 72 year old man with a history of metastatic lung cancer. He has a fever and is having trouble breathing.”

“Another riveting day here in Benbow Memorial Hospital,” Jim raises his eyebrows at Carol.

 

* * *

 

When the ambulance arrives the man is sitting up and berating the E.M.T.s. “How are you feeling, sir?” Jim queries while listening to the summary being provided to him.

“I’m…” the man starts to say, but he is interrupted by his daughter who is clambering out of the ambulance behind the gurney.

“He’s had a fever of 102 for three days! He refused to go the the doctor!” She is outraged.

“Because I’m fine, Bernice,” the man grumbles. He breath rattles and he starts coughing wetly into a kleenex. When he pulls it away it is covered in green phlegm.

Bernice takes advantage of her father’s coughing fit. “He refused to come so we waited until he was asleep and couldn’t refuse.” Her voice is reaching hysterical octaves.

At that Jim turns away from his patient. “Ma’am, if your father doesn’t want to be treated we can’t…” But he is interrupted before he can finish.

“It’s fine, boyo, just do your tests. Neither of us will hear the end of it if you don’t.” His voice is rough from the coughing.

“Alright, Mr.,” Jim pauses to recall the name that the paramedics had said. “Greyson. Let’s get you checked in and we’ll see what we can do about this fever and this cough.”

Greyson purses his lips and nods seriously before erupting in coughing once again.Bernice continues to make a fuss, her school-aged children (God knows why they were not in school) trail along behind her, while Jim works on getting her father admitted. He repeats the tests already performed by the paramedics; just to confirm and track any changes in his temperature, blood pressure, and heart rate. By the end of the admittance process Jim has a splitting headache. The children are fighting and their mother insists on keeping them close at hand. Bernice is on and off the phone; Jim would swear that the whole floor knew her business. Despite her apparent distraction she answers every time that Jim tries to ask his patient anything.

“Can you tell me how long you’ve been coughing like this?”

Bernice stops mid-sentence in her phone call, “He’s been hacking up snot for _days_.” By the time she finishes speaking she has already stopped paying attention to Jim.

“Ma’am,” Jim resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose and close his eyes, “I need your father to answer these questions.”

Bernice nods distractedly before sniping at one of her children who has started crying. Either she is not listening or she just chooses to ignore nearly everything Jim says, because this process repeats until Jim thinks of a new approach.

“Mr. Greyson, I’m going to take you up for a chest x-ray.” Mr. Greyson just nods quietly.

Jim has Carol fetch a wheelchair. Together they get Mr. Greyson settled into the wheelchair, taking care not to kink the tubing attached to his oxygen tank. The tank is settled between his shins.

Bernice looks up from her phone. “Where are you taking him?” She demands loudly.

“He needs a chest x-ray,” Jim responds with a tight smile.

“We’ll come with him.” Bernice slings her purse over her shoulder and starts to gather her children.

Jim quickly sets the brake on the wheelchair and approaches Bernice. “You’ll have to stay here. There is not enough room for everybody in the x-ray room. And we really need to keep the hallways clear for emergencies. I’ll be bringing him back here when we are finished. You can wait here, or the waiting room might prove to be more comfortable, or even the cafeteria for snacks?” Jim finishes hopefully, but Bernice’s thunderous expression tells him that he is about to receive an earful about “how- _dare-_ you-tell-me-how-to-raise-my-own-children” if he lingers much longer.

As soon as they are out of eyesight of of Mr. Greyson’s family, Jim wheels his patient into an empty procedure room.

“What are we doing?” Mr. Greyson queries roughly.

Jim grabs a chair and pulls it close before answering. “I need you to answer a few questions. I appreciate your daughter’s willingness to help—”

“Now we both know you don’t mean that,” Mr. Greyson chuckles softly.

A small smile tugs at the corners of Jim’s mouth. “—but I really need to get the answers from you.” Mr. Greyson nods. “Now how long have you had this cough.”

“I’ve been coughing almost constantly since I got the diagnosis. But this, with the mucus,” he gestures to his chest, “a little over a week.”

Jim nods and makes a note. “Does your chest hurt all the time or only when you cough?”

“Its worst when I cough, but it always hurts to a certain extent. It was worse during my second infection. I actually fractured a rib that time.”

“Your … second … _lung_ infection?” Jim clarifies; looking up from the chart. He feels a sense of deflation. The likely diagnosis has not changed, but the outcome of it certainly has changed.

Mr. Greyson smiles sadly. “I’m not new to this. I know what your tests are going to say, but I know that you have to do them and ask all of your questions.”

“I’ll make sure that I get a look at your full file, but for right now let’s get you that x-ray.”

While Mr. Grayson is getting his x-ray Jim sends Carol to get his full file from medical records in the basement. After she returns Jim thumbs through the pages grimly. Then Jim releases her to stalk the lab to get the finalized x-rays. He knows what’s wrong, but he needs the x-rays to be sure.

Both men are silent on their way back to the E.R. Bernice is still there, but her children have (thankfully) disappeared, but they have been replaced by three adults who appear to be just as troublesome as their Bernice.

“Finally!” One grumbles; hopping off the E.R. bed. “That took long enough.”

“Dad! Are you okay? Bernice said she had to call an ambulance.”

Jim is silent as he helps Mr. Greyson back into the bed.

“Well, what’s wrong with him?” Bernice demands impatiently.

Jim manages to keep his tone pleasant despite his gritted teeth. “We’ve just finished his chest x-ray. We’ll know more when those results come back.”

“And when will that be?”

“Soon,” Jim replies diplomatically. “I’ll be back as soon as I get those results.” He meets Mr. Greyson’s eyes. He is calm amid the worry of his children.

While he waits for Carol to arrive with the x-rays he tends to the minor injuries that have trickled in while he has been occupied with Mr. Greyson. A few butterfly band-aids for a child’s cut forehead, a sprained finger, nothing horribly emergent, but it keeps him busy until Carol appears at his elbow with the test results.

“Thanks.” Jim scans over the results.

“Just what I thought,” he says quietly.

“What?” Carol crowds in closely. “Has his cancer spread?”

“I don’t think that’d really be possible. No. Its pneumonia. And this is his fifth bout so far this year and it's only June.”

“Does this mean what I think it means?”

“Yeah, we have to talk to the family and Mr. Greyson and see what they want to do.”

 

* * *

 

Jim draws the privacy curtains. “Mr. Greyson, I have your test results.”

“And?” Bernice demands. Mr. Greyson’s other two children stare at him expectantly.

“And your father has pneumonia,” Jim says slowly.

“Oh, that’s good. Well, not good exactly, but he’s gotten better from that before.”

“Robert, be quiet,” Mr. Greyson orders quietly. “Let the doctor speak without interrupting. You too Bernice.”

Jim nods to Mr. Greyson. “We can certainly try to treat it. We can use IVs, antibiotics, breathing machines, the whole shebang. We can admit you and you’ll probably be here for weeks. But, the likelihood that you will recover is very slim.”

“Of course we’re going to treat him!” Bernice erupts; looking at her father.

“Bernice,” Mr. Greyson says firmly. “I have cancer in every organ in my body. I need an oxygen tank. I can’t even eat my own food anymore. And I’ve had had multiple lung infections this year. And each one takes longer than the last to get better. I didn’t want to come here. I know the end is coming. The doctors know its coming. And I don’t want to continue fighting the inevitable at this point.” He looks at Jim. “Isn’t that right?” Tears well up in Bernice’s eyes and she takes her father’s hand.

Jim nods. “Your x-rays show that your pneumonia is serious, even without the history of earlier infections and cancer it would take a lengthy hospital stay to resolve it. But we do need to take the rest of your history into consideration. And that’s what I need to talk to you about; what level of end-of-life-care do you want?”

“What does that even mean?” Robert says quietly.

“It means,” Jim takes a deep breath, “does your father wish to receive care, which will require a lengthy hospital stay, and will likely be uncomfortable and difficult. Or does he want to go home.”

“But we brought him _here_ ,” Bernice protests. “You _have_ to help him.”

Jim carefully controls his face. “Yes, but if he doesn’t want treatment. That is up to him. I can prescribe some medications to make him more comfortable: ease the coughing, lessen any pain, loosen the mucus, but he would be going home.”

“No! We’re here. We’re staying here.” Bernice says loudly.

“Bernice…”

“No, Dad! You’re getting treatment,” her voice breaks.

Jim tries to stop listening, but her voice reaches an octave that is impossible to ignore.

“Don’t you want to see Abby, Daniel, and Peter graduate high school, college, or get married?”

Mr. Greyson speaks haltingly, “Of course I do, but we both know that isn’t going to happen. I came to terms with that when they told us that the cancer had spread. I started to accept it when they told me that I had small cell lung cancer.” He pats his daughter’s hand. “And I don’t want to meet that end surrounded by doctors only seeing my grandchildren during visiting hours when you can bring them. The end’s been coming for years, Bernice, but it looks like it's finally here. I want to go home.” He turns to Jim, “So, I’d like those prescriptions. So I can spend my time with my family rather than looking at you ugly mug, or that of my oncologist, or that of any other doctor or nurse. No offense.”

Jim’s smile is tight. He hates having to have these conversations with patients. They really should have taken place sooner, in a less high-stress situation, with a doctor more familiar with the family’s situation, but too often they end up under his care making difficult choices. “None taken. I’ll get those prescriptions for you.”

 

* * *

 

Jim collapses into the plastic cafeteria chair. The plastic tray loaded with food bounces and his drink wobbles precariously. Flint catches it to prevent it from falling over. “Thanks,” Jim mumbles.

“Jeez, man, should I have sent another intern your way this morning?” Flint peers at his friend.

Jim shakes his head minutely.

“Do I even want to know what happened to you?”

Jim roughly rubs his forehead. “Nothing horrible,” he admits. “But nothing that ended well either.”

Flint pops a fry into his mouth and chews loudly. He asks his question before he finishes chewing, “Do I ask?”

“No,” Jim says sharply picking up his fork and stabbing aggressively at the pathetic pile of lettuce and two tomatoes that counts for salad in the cafeteria. “Ask about anything else.”

Flint’s answering smile is more that a bit aggressive. “So, about Friday…”

Jim groans loudly, “Really?” He glares.

“Yes. That or you tell me how your morning was.”

Jim replies with a scowl, “Fine.”

Flint licks salt of his fingers and only smiles benignly when Jim grumbles something about heathens. “Question number one: You did get his number, right?”

“No.” Jim tries and fails to stab a crouton with his plastic fork. “Next.”

“Why not?”

“No comment.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Jim frowns; his eyes stormy.

“Fine,” Flint huffs and crosses his arms across his chest. “Did you like him?”

“Next.”

“You can’t not answer two questions in a row,” Flint protests.

“Fine. I don’t know him. So, I don’t know if I like him.”

Flint’s face turns serious. “Question three: Why didn’t I know?”

“Why didn’t you know what?” Chief Silver sits down at the table across from Jim.

“About… you know,” Flint flusters at the intrusion to his line of questioning.

“Oh. About Jim being gay, you mean?”

“ _You_ _knew?!”_ Flint’s voice rises an octave.

“Of course.” Before he can say anymore he is interrupted by his pager. “Damn.” And like that he is gone.

“ _Silver_ knew,” Flint looks at his friend incredulously; raising his eyebrows. “ _Silver_ knew and I didn’t?”

Jim shrugs as he takes a drink. “It never came up.”

Flint sputters, “It never came up. Of _course_ it came up. I kept asking you to go on double dates with me. If I had known I could’ve been asking these women if they knew any guys that might be interested.”

“It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“It would have!” Flint protests. “Think of all the good times you’ve missed because I didn’t know.”

“Flint,” Jim says soothingly. “It wouldn’t have mattered. I promise.”

Flint looks at Jim. His face makes it clear that he does not believe a word that Jim has said.

“Look, Flint, you could have lined up a double date that included John Barrowman and I still would have said no.”

Flint looks a bit more mollified and less offended. “Why?”

Jim offers his friend a conciliatory smile, “I’m just not looking right now.”

“I’ve known you since we started here as interns. Am I just that obtuse?” Flint looks a bit ashamed.

Jim laughs. “No. You’re not that obtuse, but you are pretty thick when it comes to you doing things that annoy people…”

Flint cracks a smile. “Have you just not had an SO in that long?”

“No,” Jim’s smile fades. “To tell the truth, I haven’t been on a date since the first year of med school.” He can see Flint doing the math in his head. Jim turns his attention back to his lunch.

“Wait. Are you telling me that you haven’t been on a _date_ in,” he double checks his math on his fingers, “ _six_ years?”

“Seven,” Jim corrects.

“You have had sex, though, right?”

Jim purses his lips and shakes his head.

“Why haven’t you?” Flint asks before clarifying, “Dated, I mean.”

“I’m just not looking,” Jim shrugs, but he refuses to meet Flint’s gaze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on Tumblr where I post a variety of sneakpeeks!
> 
>  
> 
> [Writing](https://curstaidh-mcintyre-writing.tumblr.com/)  
> [Personal](https://i-am-still-bb.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross comes in to the E.R. Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Location of Ross’ injury has changed from his iconic scar to one along the hairline. 
> 
> ***
> 
> This one’s a bit short and a bit early, but I’m 1500 words into chapter 5 and its only 1/3 the way done. (Ch. 4 is still in the works), but I’m excited about 5 so it’s getting all my love at the moment.

_Late April_

Jim brusquely tosses the files onto the counter with a grin on his face.

“What’s got you so cheerful today, blondie?” Flint looks up from the computer.

Jim’s smile deepens. “I’m almost done for the day,” he glances at the clock. “30 more minutes then I am free. I have a new movie waiting for me in my mailbox, it’s warm and not rainy for the first time in weeks, and I’m meeting Silver for drinks after the shift is over.”

Flint pouts dramatically, “And you didn’t invite me?”

“To be honest, Flint,” Jim leans his elbows on the counter. “I figured that you already had plans. But, if you are free you are welcome to join us. We’re just going to the Alibi Room down the street.”

“I’m glad you think my social calendar is so full. But the girl from last weekend decided that she is most definitely _not_ interested in a second date.”

“What do you do to those poor women?” Jim laughs. “They never seem to last long.”

Flint shrugs and stabs his fingers at the keyboard making it click loudly. “I think I talk about work too much. But it’s hard to find other things to talk about when we work nearly 60 hours a week. Not dating seems like a better idea day be day.” Flint glances up. Something flashes across Jim’s face but it is gone a moment later.

“So, will you be joining Silver and I later?” Jim changes the subject.

“Probably. It’s been a while since we saw each other outside of the hospital.”

Jim nods and looks up at the clock again.

“I see what you’re thinking,” Flint chides. “You’re not going to just disappear for the next 25 minutes. There are still patients to be seen.”

“Spoilsport,” Jim’s tone revealing that he would very much like to stick his tongue out at his friend.

Flint hands Jim the next file. “The next patient is in bed 5. They asked for you by name.”

Jim frowns in confusion and runs through a list of patients in his head. He has a few that ask for him because he will take their complaints seriously, or he will readily admit them for “observation” because the weather is nasty. He flicks open the file as he walks over to the curtain and pulls it aside. It reveals a man sitting on the bed, his long legs dangling, dark hair obscuring his face as he idly thumbs his phone screen.

“So, Mr. Poldark, you’re here for the removal of stitches.” The name sounds familiar, but it does not click until Ross looks up and smiles brightly.

Jim narrows his eyes slightly. “You’re back.”

“Yeah,” Ross’ smile does not fade, in fact it widens.

Jim closes the file abruptly. “It’s been seven days, not five.”

Ross shrugs; his smile goes a little crooked. “I came in on Wednesday, but you weren’t working. And I got caught up with work yesterday. So, I’m here now.”

“The great thing about GPs is the fact that they’re always available.” Jim grabs a pair of blue gloves and pulls them on.

“I know. But my doctor isn’t much to look at.”

Jim ignores the comment and resists the urge to roll his eyes. “We’ll get your stitches removed and you can be on your way. It shouldn't take more than a few minutes.

“Can it take longer?”

“No,” Jim says shortly as he grabs a sterile pack of scissors and tweezers.

Ross pouts prettily. Jim clenches his jaw and scolds himself and prevents any unprofessional thoughts cropping up.

Jim sits. “You may feel pressure, but this will not hurt.”

Ross nods silently; his lips turning down in the corners. His eyebrows furrow in thought.

Jim carefully takes a stitch in the tweezers and uses the scissors to cut the thread to the side of the knot. He slowly and carefully pulls the stitch out. Ross flinches.

“Please try to remain still,” Jim says firmly.

Ross frowns. The brightness has faded from his face and Jim feels a small twinge of regret for being the cause.

Jim carefully works through the next several stitches in silence.

“I take it that it’s a ‘no’ then,” Ross says silently.

“For what?” Jim asks distractedly; he remains carefully focused on his work.

“Well,” Ross raises his eyebrows.

Jim pauses his work and actually looks at Ross, “Keep still.”

Ross’ eyebrows drop again, but a flicker of a smile has returned. “I _was_ going to ask for your number. But you seem pretty salty today. So I am guessing that the answer is no.”

“It is no,” Jim confirms. “And it will always be a no.”

Ross nods, but flinches when it pulls on the stitch currently held in the tweezers.

Jim repeats his instructions.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why will it always be a no?”

“Because I’m not looking.”

“Are you sure? You seemed pretty interested last time we saw each other,” Ross says slyly. He starts to raise a single eyebrow, but quickly thinks better of it.

“I’m sure,” Jim says firmly; ignoring the not so innocent gleam in Ross’ expression.

“Why?”

Jim pauses in his work; there are only a few stitches left. He meets Ross’ gaze for the first time since he started working. “Don’t you think that’s a little bit personal?” He challenges.

Ross shrugs, but does not say anything.

Jim goes back to work and hopes that this is the end of the conversation.

“Maybe,” Ross speaks quietly. He looks at Jim thoughtfully.

Neither speak again until Jim is finished with his work. “Now the scar will itch for a while. This is normal; it is still healing. It will take a while, but it will fade and become more supple.”

“I know how it goes,” Ross hops off the bed. “I have plenty of others” A small smile flashes across his face. “And I’m sure it won’t be my last one either.”

“Maybe you should try to be more careful,” Jim admonishes.

“Maybe. But then I won’t have an excuse to see you again.”

Jim frowns.

Ross laughs. “See you later, Doc.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on Tumblr where I post a variety of sneakpeeks!
> 
>  
> 
> [Writing](https://curstaidh-mcintyre-writing.tumblr.com/)  
> [Personal](https://i-am-still-bb.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross comes in for a Netflix-related injury and Jim has some patients that hit close to home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I blame Jim for this chapter. I wasn't planning on so much character development, but he was incredibly pushy about it.

_Mid-June_

“Just to be clear, I don’t always look like crap.”

Jim looks up from the head of lettuce-sized ankle that he is examining. “Can you tell me again how this happened, Ross.” He stresses the final word, because Ross has been unrelenting about it since he appeared in the E.R. four hours ago. He had insisted that the level of formality provided by “Mr. Poldark” was inappropriate given that he was wearing pajama pants and flip flops. His hair is fluffed up like a poodle in the July heat and humidity.

“Do you really need to hear it again?” Ross shifts uncomfortably in his plaid pajama bottoms.

Jim glances at the chart. “I don’t recall what it was and it wasn’t written down.”

“You must not have been listening, Doc,” Ross teases.

Jim does not respond. He just waits expectantly.

Ross sighs. He runs his fingers through his dark curls, which makes them stand up even more, “Fine. I was sitting on my couch binge-watching a new show on Netflix. I hadn’t gotten up in a while—the pizza and my drink were all right there—when my glass was empty I got up to get more ice and water from the fridge and my foot had fallen asleep. I’ve walked on it like that like a lot! But it rolled, it swelled, I could hardly walk, so I’m here chatting with you.”

Jim nods. “So you were walking on it afterwards?”

“Yes, that’s how I got here. I had to get to the bus stop.”

“That, along with the fact that you can wiggle your toes and can extend and flex your foot to some degree tells me that it is probably not broken. But I am going to order an x-ray just to be sure.”

“Do we get to continue our chat on the way there?” Ross asks hopefully.

“No. I have other patients to see. Dr. Carol will be taking you. Here’s to hoping you can be more civil this time around,” Jim teases a little.

“Oh. Good. I wanted to apologize for what a butt I was when I last saw her,” Ross’ small smile is radiant.

Jim shakes his head. “I’ll be back when the x-rays come in.”

 

* * *

 

“Jim, we have an OD coming in if you’re free.”

Jim’s head snaps up. “I don’t have anything that can’t wait.” He hands the x-ray results to Carol. “Tell Mr. Poldark that he’s going to have to wait longer, unless he’d rather have us send the results to a podiatrist or orthopedic surgeon.”

Jim meets the ambulance. “Do you know what substance she may have used?” This question is direct to the girl who came in with the patient. Tears are running down her face and she is wringing her hands and pulling at her threadbare clothes. When she fails to answer Jim repeats the question louder.

“It’s no use,” one of the E.M.T.s informs him. “This one has only stared at us and her friend since we picked them up. The only time she reacted is when we tried to prevent her from getting in the ambulance.

“There were syringes on the scene. So we’re confident that he used heroin. The responding officers gave him two doses of Naloxone—all they had—and we administered two more doses. His breathing was depressed when officers arrived; they began CPR and we continued it. He has not started breathing on his own, and his blood pressure has continued to drop.”

“Nasal spray or intravenous?”

“Nasal spray.”

“Let’s get a IV of Naloxone going,” Jim moves quickly to take over CPR from the E.M.T. currently administering it. “Give him a bolus of 6mg and then keep a drip going at 4mg per hour. In 15 minutes give another bolus of 3mg.” His voice is broken up by the CPR efforts. “Draw some blood so we can try to verify the drug and the dosage so we can adjust the Naloxone dose as needed.

“And someone get an intubation tray!” He shouts. Jim notices Carol has entered the room; she is carrying the intubation tray. “Dr. Carol, why are you going to intubate him instead of just using an oxygen mask?”

Carol’s eyes go wide, but she quickly responds, “One of the main causes of death in ODs is when the airway is compromised. It is not a failure to oxygenate. We incubate to head off any problems with the airway.”

“Good. Now do it,” Jim instructs; halting CPR.

A crash comes from near the door; Jim whips around. He is expecting to see Ronnie on the floor because he fainted or because he ran into a nurse. Instead he sees the woman who came in with the ambulance.

“Let’s get a gurney in here!” He rushes to her side and drops to his knees. There is vomit next to her prone body.

“She has hypoventilation and depressed heart rate.” They get her onto a gurney and into another examine room. He hears the other patient coming around as the female patient is rushed to another room.

“Pupils are contracted. We likely have another OD on our hands. Let’s get some Naloxone going!” Jim starts CPR again, but the chest is rigid and does not respond the way it normally would. “Shit, the chest wall is rigid. She has wooden chest syndrome.” He ups the Naloxone dosage.

Her condition does not change.

“How long has she been down?” Silver asks from the doorway.

When Jim fails to respond one of the Anna one of the E.R. nurses responds, “15 minutes of CPR. The patient did not respond to defibrillation, and has wooden chest syndrome.”

Silver nods his understanding. “Jim, let her go down.”

“No,” Jim grunts.

Silver approaches him and places a hand firmly on Jim’s shoulder. “Let her go down.”

Jim’s eyes narrow, but he steps back and the cardiac monitor flatlines. “Fuck.” Jim storms out of the room.

Silver watches him.

“Time of death: 12:37 am.”

 

* * *

 

Jim sits down heavily on a chair in one of the on-call rooms. He lays his head down on his folded arms and sighs. Nights like this were rough. There are always the cases where they have to have conversations that should have been had earlier with doctors more familiar with the cases. Those were rough, but at least the patients were a bit prepared, and could not be faulted for what had happened; cancer being an equal opportunity killer and all. But these, when ODs came in, he knew it could be fixed, but it was made worse by the fact that the patients had some level of choice in the situation.

The door creaks as it opens. “How are you faring?” Silver sits down in the chair opposite Jim.

Jim clenches his fists tighter, his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands. The tension runs through his shoulders and down his spine.

“Jim.”

He snaps, “What.”

“You can’t bottle this up inside, Jim. You know what happens.” Silver reaches for Jim’s hands, but they never make it.

Jim explodes to his feet. “Really? I know what fucking happens?” Jim shouts. “How the _fuck_ do you think I’m doing?” He kicks at the leg of the chair and it skitters to the others side of the room. “I _hate_ them. They come in here to have us fix something that they caused and they they go on their merry fucking way to do it all over again in a week. They don’t seem to care about who they could hurt even if it’s not directly.”

The door opens suddenly. Carol’s face is apprehensive, “Dr. Hawkins?”

“What?” Jim snarls.

Carol steps back and looks nervously from Jim to Silver. Silver makes a placating gesture. Carol visibly takes a deep breath before turning back to Jim. “Mr. Poldark is still in the E.R. waiting for his ankle to be treated. I made sure he was given some pain and anti-inflammatory medication.”

Jim’s eyes go wide and some of the anger drops away from his face. “What?”

“Mr. Poldark…”

“I heard you.” Jim’s hands are on his hips and his head drops forward. More softly, “I heard you.” He pauses. “I’m sorry, Carol. I …”

“It’s fine. I understand, Dr. Hawkins,” Carol says quickly. She starts to retreat.

“I’ll see to Mr. Poldark in a few minutes.”

Carol nods and leaves.

Silver starts to speak, “Jim.”

“I have to go see a patient, John. We’ll have to talk about this later.” Jim rubs his eyes.

“I won’t forget,” Silver says sternly with a fatherly expression to go with his words.

Jim roughly rubs his forehead as he leaves the room.

 

* * *

 

 Jim puls the curtain aside to reveal Ross reclining on the hospital bed; his eyes bloodshot and his hair even more unkempt than before.

“I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Poldark.”

Ross corrects him before Jim can continue, “Ross.”

“I’m sorry, _Ross._ More urgent patients came in and …” Jim rubs his face roughly with one hand. “The most urgent patients get seen first.”

“And I only have a messed up ankle.” Ross nods. “I get pushed to the back of the line.”

Jim flattens his lips. “Yeah. But they’re all taken care of now, we can get you patched up and on your way now.”

Ross just nods and watches Jim’s face.

“So, your ankle isn’t broken. It is just a bad sprain. So, we’ll get you in a wrap, an AirCast, and on crutches and then you’ll be good to go.” Jim picks up the supplies that he had brought with him. He begins rolling the elastic bandage around Ross’ foot. This is followed by figure eights around the ankle.

“You’ll need to use the crutches for a couple of days, a week at most. You can stop using the elastic bandage when the swelling goes down. You should continue taking anti-inflammatories and pain medication as needed. This will help reduce the swelling. You should also make sure to keep it elevated whenever possible—sleeping or sitting. As the swelling goes down you will need to adjust the elastic bandage. You should keep using the AirCast until the ankle feels stable enough to walk on. Once you stop using that you should use either the elastic bandage or a brace to prevent re-injuring the joint.” Jim starts to fit the AirCast and looks up to make sure that Ross is listening and understands. “If the pain and bruising is still present in a few weeks you should get a referral to an orthopedic surgeon or a podiatrist because you may have a break that did not appear on our x-ray.”

He looks up at Ross. “All of this information is repeated in packet they’ll give you when you check out. You should always feel free to contact your GP with any questions that may arise. And try to be more careful. This is your fourth visit in less than 2 months”

Ross nods. “I have a question.”

When Ross does not immediately Jim prompts, “About?”

Ross frowns, “Are you okay?”

“Of course.” Jim stands abruptly. “A nurse will bring you crutches and make sure you know how to use them, then you can check out and leave.”

Ross grabs Jim’s arm. “Bullshit.”

“What?” Jim responds sharply.

“You being fine. It’s fucking bullshit. Earlier you were fine, but now something is wrong.” Ross’ gaze is intense, his dark eyes flicker.

Jim pulls his arm from Ross’ grip. He steps away and plants his hands on his hips. “It’s just getting towards the end of a shift.”

“You’re forgetting that I’ve seen you at the end of a shift before.”

Jim crosses his arms. Their eyes meet and they stare at one another.

Jim is the first to look away. “It _has_ been a long day,” he sits down. He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “I … I lost a patient earlier today. It’s not all that unusual. It is an E.R. but it was an overdose and those … those hit close to home.”

“I’m sorry,” Ross says quietly. “Do you want to get a drink when your shift is over and talk about it?”

“You’re not supposed to drink with NSAIDs. And I don’t have time.” Jim stands and before he leaves he adds, “A nurse will be by shortly to get you those crutches and get you out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on Tumblr where I post a variety of sneakpeeks!
> 
>  
> 
> [Writing](https://curstaidh-mcintyre-writing.tumblr.com/)  
> [Personal](https://i-am-still-bb.tumblr.com)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silver does not forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jim was being pushy so what was Ch. 5 is now going to be Ch. 6 or possibly 7... None of this was in my character sheets or in my outline. I blame Jim.

Jim is roused from his slouched position in the dark by someone pounding on his front door. He tries to ignore it, but it just keeps going. He is greeted by Silver’s grim face when he finally opens the door.

Silver pushes his way inside past Jim. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you,” Jim grumbles.

“I plan on it,” Silver deftly relieves Jim of the open bottle of brown ale dangling from Jim’s fingers.

“Are you sitting here in the dark?” He queries as he makes his way down the dark hall to the living room.

“I wasn’t exactly expecting company,” Jim says acidly.

“I told you I wouldn’t forget. It’s better to deal with it now rather than later.”

“I’d prefer to deal with it never,” Jim grumbles.

“Don’t be a child,” Silver admonishes. “Let’s sit down, turn on the lights, and have a conversation like adults.”

Jim turns on a couple of lamps before sitting heavily on the couch and frowning at Silver who is making quick work of Jim’s beer.

“So?” Jim asks after several minutes of silence.

“It’s up to you to talk,” Silver responds smoothly.

Jim crosses his arms, frowns, and stares at his unexpected guest. Silver stares back. When Silver finishes his stolen beer he goes to the kitchen for another. He returns with a glass of ice water, which he sets in from to of Jim, and another beer.

“It’s nearly 3am,” Jim says grumpily.

“I know,” Silver replies. “I promise you that I would much rather be bed with Mari right now, but I have some parenting to do first.”

Jim grunts.

“The sooner you start talking, the sooner I’ll be out of your hair,” Silver says calmly. This behavior from Jim has always gotten under his skin, but it’s almost more infuriating now than it was when he was a perpetually petulant teenager.

Jim reaches for the glass. “What exactly do you want me to talk about?”

Silver replies silently by raising an eyebrow.

“Fine,” Jim grumbles. “But you already know why I get bothered by cases like that.”

“I do. But it helps you to verbalize it. You react much better know than you first did. It helps for you to talk about it, and realize that the cases aren’t the same.”

“Alex,” Jim says quietly, taking a drink of water. “Alex and his OD is why it upsets me.”

 

* * *

 

_“Where are you going?” Jim mumbles sleepily rubbing his eyes._

_His mother turns to look at him; his blonde curls switching between standing on end and smashed; his ankles poking out of pajama pants that had quickly grown too small in his most recent growth spurt, “Oh, Jimmy, we didn’t mean to wake you.”_

_Jim watches his father—wearing a heavy sweater over his pajama bottoms—stuffing his feet into his winter boots, “What’s going on?”_

_“Nothing to concern you. Back to bed,” his father says gruffly as he reaches for his hat and gloves._

_Jim’s eyes are wide when he looks back to his mother. She halts her preparations that mirror her husband’s and drops to her knees in front of Jim. “Your brother’s been hurt. Not badly,” she quickly adds in response to Jim’s expression, “Your father and I have to go help him. Silver’s coming over to stay with you, but we’ll be back before you wake up for school.”_

_Jim nods, but his expression is more tense than it was moments before._

_There is a knock at the door, “That’ll be Silver now,” Jim’s mother says. She cups his face in her hands, “Everything’s going to be fine. You’ll go back to sleep, and I’ll wake you up. Okay?” She smiles._

_Jim’s gaze flicks to the door where Silver is stamping snow off his boots. He’s still wearing his scrubs from work._

_His parents leave with a kiss to his forehead from his mother, and ruffled hair from his father._

_Jim and Silver stare at each other in the silence that echoes in their wake._

_Silver plants his hands on his hips, “How about we get you back to bed.”_

_“I don’t want to,” Jim says firmly._

_“How about we read a story then.”_

_“No.”_

_“You’ll need your sleep. You have school in the morning.”_

_Jim crosses his arms, “I don’t care.”_

_“Alright then,” Silver sighs. “You can sit in the living room with me, but you have to lay down.”_

_Jim frowns but nods his head._

_“Alright, come along then.”_

_Silver turns on a lamp and turns off the overhead lights. He turns the television on and flips to a channel with sitcom reruns. Jim is sitting on the far edge of the couch. “You’re supposed to be lying down.”_

_“I’m thirsty.”_

_“Well, go get a drink then. I’m not your nanny and you’re more than big enough to get your own drink, you are ten after all.” Silver sits down heavily on the couch._

_“I’m eleven,” Jim protests as he gets off the couch to get himself a drink. “I turned eleven in October. You came to my birthday party.”_

_“Ah. Yes. Eleven means that you’re all worldly and wise now. But that doesn’t change my point.”_

_Jim grumbles under his breath._

_About an hour later Jim is softly snoring all wrapped up in afghan and Silver is half-watching an advertisement about some miraculous stain remover and checking his phone every 30 seconds. He was expecting some sort of update even if it just was letting him when one of them would be back or letting him know that he would have to get Jim on to the bus in morning._

_Then his phone rings._

 

* * *

 

_When Jim wakes up in the morning something does not feel right. He is still on the couch with his mother’s afghan and light is seeping in through the closed curtains. Jim pushes the blanket off and pads over to the window. He frowns. His mother always opens the curtains and blinds first thing in the morning. Jim opens the blinds. The amount of daylight startles him, the bus always comes when it is still dark out. Jim’s stomach churns as he walks down the hallway to check his parents’ bedroom. His unease grows as he walks in to the empty kitchen._

_The back door is propped open and the cool air from it drifts across the floor to chill Jim’s feet. Outside Silver is seated on the stoop smoking. Quite a few butts litter the unshoveled snow around his feet. Jim sits down next to him, but does not say anything. Silver turns to look at him and his blue eyes are rimmed with red and brimming with unshod tears._

_After that everything passed as a blur for Jim. He remembers very little from the following weeks—he remembers shopping for an uncomfortable black suit, fighting with Silver about which shoes he should wear with it, people that he did not know apologizing to him, and standing in the snow at Silver’s side looking at polished blue-green stones:_

 

 _Rosemary Hawkins  
_ _July 7, 1959–December 14, 1995_

 _Robert James Hawkins  
_ _March 18, 1957–December 14, 1995_

 _Alexander Peter Hawkins  
_ _January 3, 1979–December 14, 1995_

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on Tumblr where I post a variety of sneakpeeks!
> 
>  
> 
> [Writing](https://curstaidh-mcintyre-writing.tumblr.com/)  
> [Personal](https://i-am-still-bb.tumblr.com)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know that I’ve been talking about a chapter I’m really excited about. This is not that chapter yet. The fluffy plot bunnies keep spawning and I felt like we needed a Ross chapter.

_Mid-June_

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” Verity demands as she watches Ross struggle with the door.

“I’m thinking that I could use some help and my dear cousin is just standing there watching me.” Ross uses one crutch in an attempt to open the door further, but as he tries to maneuver his way through the gap the crutch supporting the door slips and it closes on his arm. “Fucking hell,” he mutters as he violently manuevers his arm and his crutch through the remaining gap making quite a racket at he does so.

“I don’t think so,” Verity says. She turns her attention back to her book and pointedly ignores Ross’ piercing glares. “You’re like a bear with a sore head and I will not be on the receiving end of your nastier comments.”

Ross grumbles and makes his way over to the counter. He drops the crutches into the corner with a loud crash as he drops into a chair and hoists his injured leg up onto the counter. 

Verity gives his leg a once over before turning away again. “What did you do this time?”

“I tripped while I was on my morning run.”

“Ha!” Verity snorts, “I know you don’t run. You hate running.”

“Shows what you know,” Ross replies. “Can you fetch me a coffee, dear beloved cousin?” He makes a comical attempt at batting his eyelashes at her.

“Is your leg broken?”

“No.”

“Then you can get it yourself.”

Ross protests, “The Doc said I need to keep it elevated.”

Verity swings her head in his direction; her brows are furrowed. “Then why are you here? I really doubt that you’ll be able to lead the junior ranger programs _and_ keep your foot elevated.

“I would also like to know the answer to that one,” Marco says from his position in his office door.

Ross uses his feet on the counter to turn himself to face his boss. The chair squeaks loudly. “Well, you see—” he starts to say slowly.

“You were going to ask Verity or I to do your work for you while you sit in the A/C and eat Cheetos,” Marco finishes.

Ross looks sheepish.

After a few moments of silence, Verity offers, “I can teach the young ranger programs today.”

“And what about the rest of the week?” Marco posits, frowning.

“I can do those as well,” Verity replies, “by next Monday he should be able to hobble around without claiming that a doctor told him to elevate his foot.”

“A doctor _did_ tell me to elevate it,” Ross grumbles.

Verity hisses, “Quiet, Ross.”

“I suppose that will work,” Marco crosses his arms thoughtfully, “As long as he actually assists the hikers who come in. I remember the last time he worked the information desk all too well.”

“I am right here,” Ross ponts out, “You don’t need to talk about me like I’m not here.” 

Verity and Marco summarily ignore him. 

 

* * *

 

When the lunch break comes Verity returns to the station to find Ross is not there. Marco sits behind the counter and lazily flips the pages of a magazine. “He went out for lunch,” he says without looking up.

Verity rolls her eyes and once she retrieves her sack lunch from the employee’s lounge she heads to the parking lot to find Ross’ Jeep. He’s had the top off for weeks now, making it somewhat difficult to spot among the crowd of visitors’ vehicles. He’s pushed and leaned the driver’s seat as far back as it will go. He has his swollen and wrapped foot propped on the dash and is staring up at the sky.

“It’s times like these that make me wish I hadn’t given up smoking,” Ross states when Verity hauls herself into the passenger seat.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Verity responds sharply. She pulls an orange from her bag and hands it to him. “Eat something. You’re less grumpy when you’ve been fed.”

Ross huffs but accepts the orange.

“So,” Verity says while retrieving her sandwich, “are you going to tell me exactly how you ended up with what I assume is a sprained ankle? Or are you going to leave me with that hogwash story about jogging? Were you jumping out of some married person’s bedroom?”

“Christ, V,” Ross groans. “No, I most certainly was _not_ jumping out of a married person’s bedroom.” His tone acerbic. “I have morals you know.”

“I seem to remember an incident with—” Verity starts smugly.

“ _Fine_. Fine. I don’t have morals. Are you happy now?” He pulls his military style brimmed cap low over his eyes and eats a section of orange.

“No,” Verity says simply. “What did you do to your ankle?”

Ross mumbles something under his breath.

Verity smiles sweetly, “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.” 

Ross’ eye roll is obvious even though she cannot see his eyes. “It fell asleep while I was watching TV and I went to go get another drink and it rolled under me. It swelled pretty badly so I took myself to the E.R.”

“See? Now was that so bad?”

“Yes,” Ross replies grumpily. 

“I have another question,” Verity says when she has finished with her sandwich.

“Well that’s a fucking surpise,” Ross says sarcastically.

“Language!” Verity snaps, but the bite is not there.

“Sorry,” Ross mumbles. He sighs heavily, “What’s your question?”

“Why exactly did you go to the E.R. for a sprained ankle? You are more than capable of wrapping it yourself.”

Before Ross can reply his phone alarm goes off. He cancels it quickly. “Sorry, V,” he says while maneuvering himself out of the car. “You’ll just have to wait until later to find out that answer.”

“Then you’ll just have to come for supper then!”

“Free food? I’ll be there.”

“It won’t be entirely free,” Verity calls after him, “you’ll have to help cook it!”

 

* * *

 

“I don’t know how you deal with the Junior Ranger programs all the time,” Verity says as she peers in the oven to see if the cheese has melted yet.

“What’s wrong with them?” Ross is sitting on the counter with his long legs dangling. He is in the way and he knows it.

“They have so much energy.” Verity sighs with her hands on her hips. “I haven’t been so tired after work in ages. I don’t know how you do it.”

Ross shrugs and reaches for a cookie on the cooling rack. He moves quickly so as to avoid the towel that he knows Verity will flick at him for having one before supper. Before she has a chance to scold him the apartment door creaks open and Verity leaves to greet her boyfrie— husband. Ross uses it as an opportunity to grab some more cookies and correct himself. He finds it a tad difficult to think of Andrew as Verity’s husband. It did not help that they had gotten married very quickly at the courthouse and none of their friends or family had been invited, not that Ross blames them; Verity’s parents had not approved of the relationship from the beginning.

Dinner progresses quietly with Verity and Andrew talking mostly among themselves. Ross interjected whenever he had something to add. He eats dinner with Verity several times a week at her insistence. She insists that he eats something unprocessed and homemade a couple of times a week. She also fears that if left to his own devices he may just not eat. He does not mind. He enjoys her cooking and Andrew has a superb taste in wine, so far tonight Ross has downed nearly a whole bottle on his own.

Andrew pushes his chair back from the table, “I’ve got some work to finish, so I’ll leave you two to it.” He drops her perfunctory kiss on the top of Verity’s head. “Don’t wait up for me, dear.”

Verity gently squeezes his hand when he passes; a soft smile on her face. Andrew disappears into his office and closes the door.

Ross starts to stand.

“Hey! You never told me why you went to the E.R. rather than just handling your ankle yourself.” Verity hops to her feet and grabs the open bottle of wine from the counter. “Plus, we should polish this bottle off otherwise it’ll sit in the fridge until our next dinner and by then it will be no good.”

Ross drops back into his seat. He feels a little fuzzy and soft from the wine he has already consumed. “As long as you have another glass as well. I’m already not in any shape to drive home.”

“Well, it’s a good thing that you only live around the corner then.” Verity pours him a generous glass of red wine.

Ross accepts that glass and deftly swirls the wine in the glass. 

Verity returns to her seat and makes herself comfortable. “Spill.”

Ross takes a drink before answering. “I went to the hospital rather than just treating myself because there’s this doctor that works in the E.R. that I’m trying to get to go out with me.”

Verity raises her eyebrows. “And failing?”

“Spectacularly.” Ross frowns.

Verity thinks for a moment. “And you’re sure that he’s not straight?”

Ross shifts uncomfortably. “I’m very certain of that.”

Verity’s eyes narrow in curiosity. She says nothing; her expression is enough to prompt Ross.

“I _may_ have been drunk the first time I met him. And I _may_ have kissed him,” Ross says without meeting Verity’s steady gaze. “And don’t look at me like that! It’s not like he didn’t enjoy it!” He breathes heavily through his nose, “But he has kept me at a distance since then.”

“Maybe he’s already attached?” Verity suggests.

“Usually someone leads with that when they turn you down.”

“Ah. Yes.” Verity looks thoughtful. “Maybe he didn’t want to make you feel guilty for kissing him if he was in a relationship? Have you found him on social media?”

Ross groans. “Because the best way to make someone not feel guilty is to reject them repeatedly. And no. You know I don’t really use all that stuff. And when I do I get crazy messages from girls who can’t afford clothing and want husbands.” He snorts.

Verity has her phone out before he can finish speaking. “What’s his name?”

“Seriously, Verity?” Ross complains, but he moves his chair closer to hers so I can see her screen. “It’s Jim Hawkins.”

Several minutes later Verity sets her phone down. “It would appear that he’s as adverse to social media as you are.”

“Hm.” 

Verity picks up her phone again. “What hospital does he work at?”

“Benbow Medical Centre, Why?” 

Verity does not answer. She pecks away at the keyboard. Then she smiles and shoves her phone under Ross’ nose. “Here.”

Ross takes the phone. “What?”

“Just look at the screen,” Verity orders.

On the screen is a picture of Jim in the dark green scrubs and a description of his specialties. There is also a “Why did you become a doctor?” section as there is for all of the doctors on the page. _“My adopted father is a doctor and I always liked fixing things so becoming a doctor just made sense.”_

“What is this?”

Verity’s expression is smug. “A lot of medical facilities are doing this. They have pages with pictures and descriptions of their staff. I think they’re trying to make people less scared of doctors and medicine in general.”

Ross hands her phone back. “That’s him.”

Verity smiles and her phone emits a camera shutter click.

“What are you doing?” Ross’ eyebrows furrow together.

“Screenshot,” Verity states.

“Why?”

“Well, he is quite nice to look at isn’t he?”

Ross rolls his eyes. “Fucking hell. You're married, V.”

Verity shrugs, “Here. I will send it to you.” 

Ross’ phone pings a moment later. “Thanks,” he mutters acidly. “None of this helps me with why he’s turned me down.”

Verity shrugs and her smile disappears. “I don’t know Ross. Maybe you should just leave him be. He’s said no a few times now, and you don’t want to come off like a stalker.”

“Says the woman screenshotting his picture,” Ross mutters.

“Maybe try again in a few months?” Verity suggests. “Or maybe you should find someone else since this Jim seems pretty disinterested.”

Ross sighs and drains the remaining wine from his glass. “I’ll think about it,” he concedes. “But he did return that kiss and he didn’t seem disinterested.”

“Heat of the moment, Ross,” Verity says softly. “He may consider it all to be a mistake that he would much rather forget.”

 

* * *

 

Several hours later Ross clumsy kicks his boots off inside the door of his small apartment. He is still unsteady on his feet and it is not entirely due to the crutches. He vows that next time he will drink less, plus the doc had said he should not take the pain pills with alcohol, a rule that he has ignored so far, but not without a hint of shame. In the bedroom he drops the crutches in a corner and hobbles into the bathroom where he turns the water on and splashes some on his face. He rests his hands heavily on the edges of the sink and looks at his reflection. He gets ready for bed and unlocks his phone to check any unread notifications before sleeping. Quite a while later he is flicking through photos on his phone. He stops on the screenshots that Verity took. He gets a familiar flutter in his stomach and he sighs and sets his phone aside. Maybe he should give up.

 

* * *

 

In his house, Jim is also getting ready for bed. Ross crosses his mind as he has several times that day and Jim passively wishes he had not been such a dick the night before and wonders if Ross will ever return to his E.R.

 

* * *

 

“Did you get a lot done this evening?” Verity asks. She is sitting on the edge of the bed carefully braiding her hair.

Andrew carefully places a bookmark and sets his book aside. “Not as much as I would have liked.”

“Oh,” Verity moves to climb under the covers. “I hope Ross and I weren’t too loud.”

“Not at all,” Andrew assures her. “What did the two of you talk about after I went in to the office?”

Verity smiles. “He has a crush on a doctor from the hospital. He didn’t want to tell me, but I dragged it out of him. Apparently he’s been rejected a few times already, but keeps trying.”

“You have to admire his persistence.”

Verity rolls her eyes, “I suppose.”

“You would not have said yes to me if I had not been persistence,” Andrew teases. 

“Hmphf,” Verity pokes him in the ribs and settles back against her pillows.

“And?”

Verity looks at him.

“You usually tell me more about Ross’ sordid love life.”

“I wouldn’t say _sordid_ …”

“Okay, short-lived.”

“That’s fair,” Verity concedes.

She continues, “I don’t really know much more. I know the guy works at a hospital as an E.R. doctor. I know his name is Jim Hawkins, and I know what he looks like.”

“Hm. I knew of a Jim Hawkins during my stint in the Navy.”

Verity’s eyes widen and she snatches her charging phone off her nightstand. She swipes across the screen a couple of times. “It’s probably not him, but…” She hands her phone to Andrew and he lazily zooms in on the screenshot that Verity pulled had pulled up.

“It looks like him. He even has the same haircut. But I didn’t know him well.” Andrew passes the phone back to her. “He was a hospital corpsman and I was in the intelligence services,. as you know.”

Verity rolls and looks at him enthusiastically. “Tell me _everything_ you know!”

Andrew laughs heartily. “I didn’t know him. I knew his name and where he worked, but beyond that,” Andrew shrugs. “I mostly knew him because we always get a list of incoming seamen who could be problematic. He had some issues during basic training, but I never saw anything odd. From what I could tell he was very serious, kept his head down, and not much else. He never did get into any major trouble from what I could tell.”

Verity looks at the picture on her phone and thinks about what Andrew just told her. She places her phone face down on the bedside table and closes her eyes. She resolves to pass the information on to Ross tomorrow even though she told him that maybe he should abandon this so far fruitless quest.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the massively long wait. I finished my second masters, which ended up involving researching and writing a 40 page, fully cited chapter in five days. Then there was the task of editing the 35,000+ word monstrosity several times. After that I was really just burnt out on writing. So I turned to knitting. I just had to frog a sweater because I was too impatient to swatch, so I’m back to writing.
> 
>  
> 
> Find me on Tumblr where I post a variety of sneakpeeks!
> 
>  
> 
> [Writing](https://curstaidh-mcintyre-writing.tumblr.com/)  
> [Personal](https://i-am-still-bb.tumblr.com)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim is warming to Ross and we find see hints of why he is hesitant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing this chapter! I'm so excited to share it with everyone! I had planned on it being much longer... but I ended up feeling like it was filler so I nixed it and here we are, but I'm not sure if it really works. Let me know if its not satisfactory! I want so much from this chapter and I would hate for it to just be bleh.
> 
> Note the added months. I had these in my notes, but it seemed like I should add them since there are gaps between chapters. And not every encounter is included. At this point it's been four months since Jim and Ross’ first encounter.

_ Mid-August _

 

Jim sets his coffee down and slides into the seat across from Flint. “You will not believe what happened last night.” An amused smile dances across his face, like he is remembering a private joke.

“Hmm,” Flint hums without looking up from his phone. 

“Ross came into the E.R. again.”

“Who?”

Jim’s eyebrows furrow, “You know, the patient who keeps coming in to see me.”

Flint looks up sharply. “Ah,” Flint nods and tucks his phone away. “Why were you even in the E.R.?”

“I picked up an extra shift; they were short staffed and you know how Friday nights are,” Jim fidgets with the cardboard collar on his coffee mug and smiles. “I don’t know how he has made it this far. That Netflix injury, the one where he strained his back doing laundry… and then last night. Last night he came in because he cut his finger.”

“Okayy…” Flint prompts.

“He was cutting a bagel.” Flint frowns. Jim’s smile widens, “and he had his finger in the hole in the center.”

Flint shakes his head, “Idiot.”

Jim nods with the smile still on his face.

“You like him,” Flint taunts.

“Do not,” Jim shoots back. “He’s just an idiot who keeps coming in with stupid injuries.”

“Just keep telling yourself that,” Flint says before going back to his phone.

Jim huffs and finishes his coffee in silence.

 

* * *

 

 

“Could it get any hotter?” Jim groans as he sits down.

Silver ignores the complaint. “You’re late.”

“Only because I didn’t want to get out of my cold shower,” Jim shoots back. “Why did you have to pick the one place that doesn’t have A/C at the end of August?”

“I like the view,” Silver says simply, gesturing towards the dully glittering lake.

“It’s only worth it, old man, if there’s a breeze.”

Silver shrugs.

Flint looks at Jim with a smirk on his face. “I can think of another reason you didn’t want to get out of the shower.”

Jim frowns in confusion. “What?”

“It has to do with that patient that keeps coming in to see you,” Flint smiles slyly. 

Jim’s frown deepens to a scowl. “Really? And no. First off, I’m a grown man. I don’t have to jerk it in the shower like a teenage boy hiding from his family. Second of all, what is it going to take for you to let that go?”

Flint thanks the waitress who just arrived with their drinks before responding. “What’s it going to take for you to admit that you like him?”

“Pigs flying,” Jim says shortly. He reaches for his own drink.

“Now, now, children,” Silver says patronizingly, “let’s not squabble at the dinner table.”

Jim fixes Silver with a glare before turning his attention back to Flint. “I’m not looking,” his eyebrows raise in earnestness. “I’m really not. I’m not saying it to get attention or to play hard to get. I really am  _ not _ looking. And that isn’t going to change.”

“Mmhmm,” Flint hums and smiles around his drink.

Jim rolls his eyes, which earns him a stern look from Silver, and changes the subject, “You both already know what I did today, but what did you do?”

Flint snorts, “I’m surprised your intern didn’t tell you. She seemed suitably traumatized.”

“Carol was busy working with other people and such, I didn’t see much of her today. 

“Did you send her to help with lumps and bumps in the clinic?”

“No, but I’ll remember that for next time.” He spins his bottle in his hands. “No, a man came in with some pretty unpleasant injuries.” He has to raise his voice to be heard over the increasing volume of the bar.

“Beer bottle up the ass that broke?” Silver suggests.

Jim flinches, “I will never understand what drives people to do that.”

“Funny,” Flint says. “You’re probably the most qualified to tell us why people stick things up there.”

“Haha,” Jim gives Flint the finger, which only serves to widen the smile on Flint’s face.

“Small rodent?”

Flint answers, “I have never seen one of those and I hope that I never do.”

“Are you going to make us guess until we happen to get it right, or will you just tell us?” Jim asks.

“I’ll give you another hint; his testicles were shredded.”

Jim and Silver shift uncomfortably much to Flint’s delight.

“I’ve been at this a long longer than you children, but I’ll never be prepared for  _ that. _ ”

“Angry girlfriend?” Jim asks skeptically.

“Nope, furrier.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Pet,” Silver says firmly.

“Warmer,” Flint grins.

“Cat!” Silver says triumphantly. “I’ve seen it before and it’s  _ not _ pretty.”

Jim looks uncomfortable. “Is he right?”

Flint nods and takes a long pull from his beer. “He’s right on the money. This man  _ claimed _ that he was ‘cleaning,’” Flint raises his hands for air quotes, “his bathtub while naked and his cake jumped on them like they were a chew toy. We had to tranq the cat to get it off,” his grin is maniacal. “I got started on the stitches and had Carol finish them. I was going to split the remaining stitches between both the interns, but Ronnie looked like he was about to faint and be sick on himself at the same time.”

“There’s more than one idiot who’s done something like that?” Jim shivers dramatically.

“There are a lot of idiots in the world,” Silver says sagely leaning back in his chair.

 

* * *

 

 

Silver fumbles for his keys at the door to Jim’s house; a task that is made more difficult by Jim clinging to him for support. Silver regrets his insistence to Flint that he did not need help with this task. “Can you be less clingy?” Silver grunts sarcastically as he shifts Jim to one side.

“Sure,” Jim slurs. He lets go of Silver and he promptly falls against the wall of his home. “It’s too  _ hooot _ ,” he whines and starts pulling at his t-shirt.

“Keep your clothes on until we’re inside at least.” Silver shakes his head and continues to fuss with the keys. Once he has the door open and his keys safely stowed away he reaches for Jim and bundles him through the front door and off the porch where he can make less of a scene.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Silver says quietly.

Jim nods in agreement, but needs help reminding as he gets distracted and tries to go elsewhere in his home. Silver gently corrects him and guides him towards the back bedroom where a fan gently whirs in spite of the air conditioning. 

Silver grunts as he guides Jim through the dark house to his bed, “You’re a lot heavier than you look.”

Jim’s eyes narrow a few moments later. “Are you calling me fat?” He sits heavily on the bed and sways as he looks at Silver.

“No, lad,” Silver says quietly.

“Hm,” Jim hums. He pulls at his t-shirt again, this time getting it partially off, but he gets stuck. 

Silver sighs, “Fine, I’ll help you get ready for bed, but I’m not changing your damn underpants.”

Jim laughs loudly; almost falling over, “I don’t like you enough for that!”

Silver smiles and raising his eyebrows says, “I don’t like you enough for that either, Jimbo.” He reaches for the bedside lamp.

Jim’s answering smile is wide and sloppy. Silver shakes his head; that smile reminds him of Jim’s father and of the little boy that Jim used to be. “Lay down,” he says sternly, “and give me your feet.”

Jim complies lazily. Silver roughly works Jim’s sneakers off and then his jeans. By the time the ordeal is finished Jim’s eyes are closed and his breathing has already deepened. “Little bastard,” Silver mutters.

“Hey,” Jim protests quietly.

“Hey yourself.”

Jim snorts. 

Silver retreats to the kitchen and bathroom in search of a glass of water, a handful of ibuprofen, and a bucket. He places the first two on the bedside table and the last item on the floor by the bed. He pauses a moment when he sees the Jim has rolled on to his stomach; he is curled around a pillow. The position reveals the tattoos that Silver often forgets that Jim has. Jim keeps them carefully hidden most of the time—a pair of crossed oars on his ribs, an abstract dragon covering his upper arm and right shoulder, and the Big Dipper covering his other shoulder and expanding across the breadth of his broad shoulders. Off center below the others, over the location of his heart in small serifed font—Adam.

Silver looks at that last tattoo sadly. “You deserve better, Jimbo. And I hope you get it.”

Jim mumbles quietly; only one word is clear, “... Adam …”

“Yeah, I know, he did a number on you, but maybe you can move on soon. Flint keeps mentioning a patient who comes in to see you with ridiculous injuries.”

Jim huffs but does not reply. He snuggles deeper into his pillows and begins snoring softly. Silver shakes his head. He grabs a blanket from the end of the bed and shakes it out to cover Jim. He turns off the lights and retreats through the dark house, only passing Jim’s grey cat, Admiral, who is silently making his way to Jim’s room.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on Tumblr where I post a variety of sneakpeeks!
> 
>  
> 
> [Writing](https://curstaidh-mcintyre-writing.tumblr.com/)   
>  [Personal](https://i-am-still-bb.tumblr.com)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross brings an injured biker/hiker into the E.R. and Carol makes a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the name change at the very end of Chapter 7. I did fix it, and it is Adam not Drew. The villain was given a last minute name change, and I forgot to change both instances!

_October_

 

Once the school year began actual work at the Ranger Station almost came to a stand still. Hikers asking for advice or directions was reduced to a handful in the morning during the week. The weekends are still decently busy, but that too will end once the first snow arrives at the end of October. The seasonal employees had long since been sent home, leaving only a handful of employees to handle what little work there was. Most days it was Ross, Verity, Marco, and a handful of local volunteers working on a rotation of part-time hours. 

Ross is sitting with his feet up on the counter. He should be planning the trail repair plan for the spring, but those papers lay scattered in front of him while he leans back with his hands clasped behind his head. The chair squeaks in tandem with the bouncing of his foot. The leaves outside are putting on a brilliant display, but Ross is staring at the dropped particle board ceiling. He wonders what wonderful beams and woodwork are hidden behind the modern efforts for energy efficiency. Besides that he has no particular thoughts, but they do occasionally touch on his last interaction with Jim nearly 2 months earlier. He has even considered making up a fake problem just as an excuse to go into the Benbow Medical Center’s emergency medicine department, but he always talks himself out of it, or rather Verity berates his rash decision making and his resulting decision reflects her words. 

Ross sighs.

He drops his feet and turns back to his work, with an eye to the door, hoping for a distraction to walk through it; hoping for a job that will be urgent enough to take him far away from the endless paperwork that comes from working for a government agency.

He’s just finished going over the trail conditions for the Mirkwood Meadows when the bell over the door rings chaotically.

The man who burst through the door is dripping in sweat with a panicked expression on his face. Once he catches his breath, “I need you to come with me,” he gasps. “My friend broke his arm and we only have our bikes and we had not seen any cars on that road for the whole ride.”

“Let me get the keys for the truck,” Ross sprints for the back office. “Marco, you’re going to have to man the front desk. A man came in and his friend needs emergency assistance.”

Marco looks up from his work. “You should call in Search and Rescue then.”

Ross anxiously shuffles his feet, “It’s not that serious. A biker with a broken arm on the road. Nothing complicated.” Ross carefully tries to remove that excitement from his face. He _needs_ this and not for the hot shots to rip it from his hands. 

Marco hums and watches Ross like a hawk. “Alright, but if it’s anything more serious, make sure you radio back here and I’ll send out Search and Rescue. I’m actually going to put them on standby.”

“Will do,” Ross throws over his shoulder after snagging the truck keys from the hook.

On the way out the door they skirt the bike that the man dropped in front of the doors. 

Ross turns the keys in the ignition and the large truck with its off-roading tires roars to life. “You remember where he was?”

The man nods his head vigorously. “It’s pretty much a straight shot once you get on the Old Forest Road.”

Ross pushes the gas and peels out of the parking lot—the thrumming adrenaline in his blood causing him to take the turn faster than prudence would allow.

“Was it a simple or compound fracture?”

The man’s face turns a little green, “Uh... Compound is when it breaks through the skin?”

Ross nods his head sharply. He cannot take his eyes off the narrow, winding road. He’s watching the signs for the curves, but he’s always scanning the edges of the road for the tell tale glow of animal eyes. It is getting late in the afternoon, and in the shade of the heavy canopy, animal activity is increasing.

The man swallows forcefully, “I didn’t see any bone or blood, but there was a bend where none ought to be.”

“It’s not too bad then,” Ross says reassuringly.

 

* * *

 

“They messed up your address again,” Silver drops a pile of mail into Jim’s lap.

“Huh,” Jim flips through the mail; its mostly junk, like usual. “I was wondering why I hadn’t received the new issue.” Jim pulls a thick, bound literary magazine to the top of the pile. 

“It’s been sitting on my hall table for weeks. You need to call them and get it straightened out,” Silver grumbles.

“I have called them, old man. They assure me that they have the correct mailing address.”

“Incompetent fuckers,” Silver snaps.

The door to the lounge swings open. “I need you guys to get on the floor ASAP. The E.R. is filling up and shift change is going to be a bitch.”

 

* * *

 

“I’ve been waiting for over two hours to see a doctor.” A woman in a gown complains with her arms resting on the counter.

Flint barely looks up from the computer screen where he is typing notes. “I know, ma’am. And I’m really sorry, but we’re really slammed with people from Oktoberfest.”

“My stomach is really killing me,” she presses.

Flint looks up from the screen for a moment to meet her eyes, “I promise that I’ll get you a doctor to see you as soon as one becomes available.”

She sighs and slowly walks back to her bed to wait.

Flint stops Carol as she walks past. “You ordered a GI panel on the patient in bed 3, the results are back, but you haven’t been so see her yet.”

“Yeah, I know,” Carol stammers. “I did look at the results and I updated her chart. It looks like the flu or food poisoning.”

“You need to update the patient.”

“But Silver’s going to do an external jugular on a GSW and I’ve never seen one before…”

“But her results are back.”

“I’ll do it after the EJ, have a nurse start fluids,” Carol says before darting off.

Flint frowns.

 

* * *

 

“I need a doctor in here!” Peter, one of the nurses shouts.

Jim dashes into the room from the hallway and finds a woman on the floor with Peter checking her pulse.

“Heart rates in the 30s.”

Jim drops to his knees and moves to check her heart with his stethoscope, voicing reassurances the whole time.

“My chest really hurts!” the patient moans.

“I’m going to listen to your heart,” Jim says calmly.

The patient’s raspy breathing is the only sound for several seconds.

“There are ST elevations. This woman’s having a heart attack. Why hasn’t she been seen?” Jim asks brusquely.

“I thought she had,” Peter responds quietly.

“Page cardio and give me 325mg of aspirin and an EKG machine. She needs one now!” Jim order another nurse.

“She’s already had one,” she responds.

“Who ordered it?”

 

* * *

 

“You paged me?” Carol enters the exam room.

Jim snaps, “Is this your patient?”

Carol immediately flounders at the restrained anger in Jim’s voice, “Yeah… she had the stomach flu.”

“And you ordered an EKG?”

“I did. It was just part of a GI workup for her stomach pain,” Carol hedges.

“Don’t try and justify your mistake,” Jim does not look away from his patient. “Did you _look_ at the EKG results?”

Carol stares at him mutely and shakes her head.

Jim leaves the patient while the cardiologist and Peter work on her. His voice is quiet and stern, “You have a woman of African descent in her late 40s with diabetes and stomach pain. She should have been in a cath lab hours ago.”

“But, she wasn’t complaining of chest pain,” Carol stammers.

“That doesn’t matter. If you order a test you are responsible for the results. You have to look at them even if you think that they won’t be important,” Jim shoves the woman’s chart into Carol’s hands. “And if that test is an EKG you look at it _immediately_ you don’t run off to see some fancy procedure.”

Carol looks at the chart for the EKG results. “An inferior MI.”

“Carol, you’re training to be an ER doctor. Our job is to think of the things that will kill our patients the fastest and rule them out before moving onto the more mundane explanations such as the stomach flu.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Learn. Do better.”

 

* * *

 

Ross frowns and shifts from one foot to the other. He has to stay with the idiot cyclist until he is released so he can file a report on the injury within the park. The whole experience would be more enjoyable if he had not left his book sitting on the counter or if he had given in to Dem’s insistence that he get a smartphone. He huffs and leans against the wall. His uniform shirt has come untucked, but he ignores it. He watches patients, doctors, and nurses all bustling about and he does his best to make time move faster, which just makes it move all the slower.

Then he catches sight of Jim’s short golden hair amid the crowd of bustling bodies. He does not recall making the decision to follow Jim; next thing he knows he is standing outside around the corner from the ambulance bay where tables and chairs are set up outside a door that leads to the cafeteria. The seats are fairly empty, most people opting to stay inside hiding from the brisk October breeze and the rapidly disappearing sunlight. Jim is seated at an otherwise empty table with his feet propped up on an empty chair. 

“Hey.”

Jim looks up from his thick magazine, and the annoyed expression drops from his face. “Oh. Hi. Don’t tell me you hurt yourself again,” his lips curl into a smile.

Ross chuckles, “I actually didn’t.”

Jim pulls his feet from the empty chair and gestures for Ross to join him. “Really? Should I take it that you’re stalking me now?”

“Absolutely not!” Ross startles. 

“It’s a joke,” Jim shakes his head and nudges Ross’ foot with his own. “What brings you here if you haven’t managed to hurt yourself?”

Ross sits down and Jim has his first good view of Ross’ face.

“And if you didn’t hurt yourself, what happened to your face?” Jim adds.

Ross makes himself comfortable—adjusting the wide belt of his uniform—before answering. “To answer your last question first, I dropped my phone on my face the other night and gave myself this black eye,” he gestures deprecatingly to his face. The tops of his cheeks flush slightly in embarrassment. “As for why I’m here today. A visitor ran his bike into a bear—very inconsiderate if you ask me—and broke his arm.

“I know it sounds insane,” he says when he sees the incredulous look on Jim’s face, “But that’s what we were told—fucking bike vs. bear collision with no mauling involved. The bear seems to have decided that the road wasn’t the best place of his lunch after that.

Ross crosses one ankle over a knee, “I brought him in and I’m waiting for him to be discharged so I can write up my report.”

Jim’s brow is furrowed. “Where on earth do you work that there are bears sitting in the middle of the road? I rarely see a racoon in the road.”

“They’re not on the road all that often. I’ve only seen bears a handful of times, so they’re not all that common,” Ross protests.

Jim nods. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Ross gestures to his olive drab pants, black boots, and beige shirt with a name tag and a badge, “I felt like my uniform made it obvious.”

Jim raises his eyebrows.

“I’m a park ranger at the National Park,” Ross gestures vaguely in the direction of the outskirts of the city. “And I already know what you do.”

“You should know _very well_ what I do with the number of times you’ve been in here the last few months.”

Ross’ expression is full of mock outrage, “I haven’t been in in nearly 2 months!”

Jim grins, “So you’ve been keeping track have you?”

Ross grunts and looks away. “Did you always want to be a doctor?”

Jim shifts in his seat, “No. Not really.”

When he does not continue Ross asks, “What made you want to be a doctor? It doesn’t seem like a spur of the moment decision.”

“I actually wanted to be as far away from hospitals for a long time, being a doctor is a more … ah … recent development.”

“Why did you change your mind?”

“I didn’t so much change my mind as make a decision,” Jim crosses his arms. “I didn’t really have any plans and then I dropped out of college. Then I figured out that I wanted to help people so I went back with a plan, and here I am.”

“Is that when you joined the Navy?”

Jim’s eyes snap to Ross’.

It is Ross’ turn to adjust his position uncomfortably. “I was talking about you with my cousin, Verity. And then she, naturally, told her husband about our conversation, and we … uh … we had found a picture of you on the hospital’s website … and … uh … she fucking showed him the picture, and he said he recognized you from a boat that he was stationed on.” 

An uncomfortable pause follows Ross’ explanation.

“And you claim that you’re _not_ stalking me,” Jim says dryly. 

Ross laughs shortly.

“Yeah. I joined the Navy after I left college. It’s actually why I dropped out.”

“Why did you join the Navy?”

Jim looks away and tightens his arms across his chest.

“I was running away from something.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, our medical emergency in this one is based on a real incident that I read about when I was in the Sierra Nevada and researching our routes through the mountains.
> 
> Thank you for hanging with me through my second M.A. thesis and wedding planning! Less than two weeks and I will no longer have to think about seating charts and flowers.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 9 brought to you by my NaNo group, word sprints, and Starbucks!
> 
> Ross acquires something important.

Mid-November

 

“Jim, get a travel bag and a coat. An ambulance crew has called for assistance on a rollover crash out in Waymer County.”

“Do you know what it is?” Jim asks pulling on the dark coat with reflective markings.

Silver shakes his head. “I don’t really know. They said that multiple cars were involved and that it was bad. The radio connection was not all that great. They were calling for a life-flight and you’re going with them to assist.”

 

* * *

 

The ground is wet beneath Jim’s sneakers when he hops from the helicopter. His sneakers are soaked before he makes it to the edge of the scene, but his attention is immediately captured by what he sees. Car parts are scattered all over the road; emergency personnel move about the crash site in the strobing red, blue, and white lights. One car lays on its side and fireman are already working on the car. Another is on the far side of the road, but the closer car, the one that is crumpled on all sides. It is hardly recognizable as a sports utility vehicle, but the hood ornament identifies it as an expensive model. It is around this vehicle that firemen and paramedics are gathered, but none of them are doing much of anything. Outside the circle of uniforms a teenage boy sits crumpled on the embankment. 

Jim clenches his teeth when he sees that horrifying mixture of abject sorrow and fear on the boys face. His eyes are preternaturally wide, tears streak through the dirt and blood smeared on his cheeks, his chin wrinkles and his lower lip trembles, and he stares at the remnants of the car.

A paramedic approaches him at a jog. “Dr. Hawkins?”

Jim nods shortly and tears his eyes away from the teenager.

“Peter Maxwell. We need your help over here,” Peter leads him to the shattered SUV. “The driver appears to be fine, but he is going into shock, but we can’t get him into the ambulance. He won’t leave without his brother. He’s pretty torn up about the whole thing.”

“What seems to be the problem?”

“He’s breathing but he cannot really move, but there’s not obvious trauma other than a head lac and the fireman don’t want to start with the Jaws of Life until we have a better idea of what’s wrong, and we’re not sure what we’re dealing with. The boy’s name is Billy.”

Jim hands his kit to the paramedic, “I’ll take a look and see what we can do.”

The doors are so crushed and jammed shut that the only way to access the back seat is through the sunroof. Jim stretches out on the roof of the car, not noticing the cold wetness that immediately soaks through his pants. He eases his head, shoulders, and arms through the opening taking care to avoid the glass shards on the edges.

He smiles at the boy. “Don’t move, Billy. My name is Jim, and we’re going to get you out of here as quickly as possible. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Billy blinks and tears track through the dirt on his face.

“Hey, none of that!” Jim lightly scolds, keeping his carefully practiced smile on his face. “All of us are here to make sure that you get to go home safely.” Despite his light-hearted tone and demeanor he’s studying the boy and becoming more concerned. 

“Okay,” Billy says quietly.

“I’ll be right back, Billy,” Jim says before he sits up and slides away from the broken.

“You were right not to move him, Peter,” Jim speaks loud enough to be heard, but quietly enough to ensure that the boy does not hear him. “Any movement could prove fatal if he’s not in a c-collar first. He has an internal decapitation.”

 Peter’s eyes go wide. “How can you tell?”

“Get me a collar while I talk. The sooner he’s in a collar, the sooner the firemen can do their job, and the sooner everyone can be on their way. And the sooner these boys’ parents can know that their sons will be fine.

“Every time he breathes his chest and his head are moving at different times. This indicates that his head is moving more freely than it should.”

Jim grabs the collar and moves back into position. “How you doing there, Billy?” The velcro rips apart. Jim looks at the collar and frowns. 

“Sit tight.”

“We’re going to need to get the door off. There is no way I can get the collar on without causing more damage.”

“But if he moves…?”

“He’ll die,” Jim says grimly. “If his head moves it could damage his spinal cord and he’ll going into cardiopulmonary arrest.”

“How are we going to get the door off without him moving? No one is small enough to fit inside to shield him from the sparks,” the fire chief says.

Jim frowns throughtfully. “I’ll hold his head so that he doesn’t move.”

“What about the sparks?”

“I can drape him with one of your fire coats.”

“And you?”

“I’ll just deal with it.”

 

* * *

 

“You have to get out of the car, Ross!” Demelza scolds.

Ross peers at her from the far side of the backseat. “I don’t want to.”

“You blacked out and puked.”

Ross shrugs.

“You  _ need _ to get out.” Demelza grabs for his arm and drags at him, but he plants his heels against the door frame and pulls away.

Demelza falls back when her grip slips free from his arm. “Goddamn it!”

She turns to Dwight. “Can you get this big dummy out of the damn car!” She storms off to stand several yards away from the car. She scowls and crosses her arms.

Dwight shrugs and sits down in the backseat next to Ross. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Ross eyes him suspiciously.

“Dem’s not going to be happy until you get your head checked out.”

“And?”

Dwight shrugs. “We can sit here all night or we can all go home and go to bed.”

Ross picks out his jeans.

“ _ If _ we go in, do I get to see Jim?”

Dwight furrows his eyebrows, “I don’t know if he’s working, but you’ll see a doctor.”

“I only want to see a doctor if it’s Jim.” Ross flings his door open much harder than is necessary and it slams the car in the next spot; Dwight winces.

While walking towards the brightly lit sliding doors Demelza leans close and in a hushed tone asks, “What are we going to do if Jim isn’t here?”

Dwight responds with a shrug.

 

* * *

 

Ross was not helpful when it came to filling out his paperwork. 

“Dammit, Ross,” Demelza snaps. “Can you just focus! I don’t remember your stupid middle name.”

“That one’s Vennor,” Dwight supplies as he hands Ross a magazine in hopes that it will keep him from wandering off for a few minutes. Shortly after sitting down Ross had claimed that he was going to find the restroom, which was clearly visible just down the hall, and he had disappeared and they had to spend several tense minutes before Demelza found him in the women’s restroom several halls over.

“And I’m not sure they need new paperwork. From his own admission it seems like he’s been here quite often over the last several months.”

Demelza scrunches her nose and frowns at the paper. “I suppose. I also don’t know the answers to most of these questions. I have no idea if he has a family history of diabetes, or glaucoma.” She scribbles in Ross’ birthdate and then drops the clipboard onto the plasticy table. Once she returns the clipboard to the desk she sits on Dwight’s other side. She rests her elbows on her knees, and looks past Dwight’s knees to Ross.

“I wasn’t expecting a night out to end here.”

“To be honest, I wasn’t either, but I’m not terribly surprised.” In response to Demelza’s quizzical expression he elaborates, “Ross was quite accident prone for a long time, the long lull of his teenage years and early twenties seems to have been an aberration.” He smiles fondly, “I remember when he wanted to make armor because he’d been playing some RPG where he played a dwarf and he thought cans would be a good idea. He took the bottoms off of cans after his mother had emptied out the green beans, beefaroni, or whatever else was in them. He removed the paper and used permanent marker to draw designs on them. The he put them on. Thankfully he couldn’t get the cans over his ankles, but he did get them past his elbows and they were stuck and his arms were all cut up because cans, you know. His mother was freaking out because she couldn’t get the cans off and Ross was bawling. And no one could find his immunization record to remember if he’d ever had a tetanus shot because some of those cans had been sitting in the garage for months and were all rusty. They were able to get the cans of his arms and he was find, but they did give him a Tdap shot and he bitched about it for days. He kept complaining that his arm was hot, that it hurt, and all that. I remember that his mother had absolutely zero sympathy for him. She just kept telling him that if he was going to do lamebrained things then he would have to deal with the consequences or change his behavior. I’m sure she was hoping for the later, but not too much later got a black eye trying to jump down the whole flight of stairs in one go.”

Demelza listens and rolls her eyes. She looks at Ross again, who seems to be absorbed with the magazine that Dwight gave him—Women’s Health. “I don’t really remember him getting hurt.”

“As I said—aberration.”

“Or just an idiot plan to get to see the doctor that works here?”

Dwight snorts. “I really hope not. I expect more forethought from him, but my trust may be sorely misplaced in this case.” He nudges Ross’s arm with his elbow.

Ross looks up; his eyes are bright almost feverish in their intensity. “Where’s Jim?”

Demelza and Dwight’s eyes meets. “Uh… I don’t know if he’s here, but they haven’t even come for you,” Demelza responds.

Ross jumps to his feet dropping the magazine on the floor.

“Ross…” Demelza groans, but Dwight scoops the magazine up and stands, but Ross is already half-way to the double doors separating the waiting area from the E.R. 

“Shit.” Demelza takes off after him, her black boots squeaking on the floor.

Ross shoves the doors open. “JIM!”

Demelza grabs for his wrist, but he slips away with no apparent effort. He keeps walking and shouting as he goes. He pulls a curtain aside, leaves it open, and keeps moving. 

“So sorry,” Dwight mutters to patient as he tugs the curtain shut again. Dwight manages to grab Ross’ upper arm.

“Hey. You can’t do this. We have to go wait our turn.” Dwight tugs Ross, who is clearly not really paying attention to him, around and starts to direct him in the direction of the waiting room. It works at first, but it is much like herding cats and Ross slides around and out of Dwight’s grasp and avoids Demelza. He continues working his way through the E.R. and he continues shouting. By this point people are telling him to “Shut the hell up!” and “What is  _ wrong  _ with you,” and Dwight murmurs apologies along the way and Demelza scowls darkly at anyone who says a word.

A man of average height, wide shoulders—the green cloth of his scrubs stretched tightly over them—and thick, dark, neatly groomed hair steps in front of Ross and effectively blocks him from continuing on his meandering path. “Can I help you?” he asks in a tone that conveys authority, control, but also peace.

“I’m sorry, Doctor” Dwight says politely, taking a firm grip of Ross’ arm while Demelza does the same. “I’m afraid he’s more than a little drunk and he hit his head. We’ll get him back to the waiting room.”

Ross’ face darkens and he violently tugs his hand from Demelza. “I. Want. To. See. Jim,” he bites out.

The doctor’s eyebrows raise slightly, and the slightly menacing, authoritative expression disappears and is replaced by one that is ever so slightly mischievous—a quirk to his lips and a lift to one eyebrow. He gives Ross a once over—head to toe. “I remember you. Your Jim’s crush.”

Delmelza’s eyebrows shoot up, “You mean that this,” she gestures helpless at Ross, “is mutual?”

“Pretty much, but Jimmy’s the kind to keep everything under lock and key unless absolutely necessary, which is to say that he just looks distracted sometimes, especially when this one shoes up with some newfangled injury.”

“Hey! I wasn’t the one injured last time,” Ross protests.

“That’s right,” he shakes his finger thoughtfully at Ross, “Jimmy said you brought me that messy broken arm from the guy who ran into a bear. Dumbass.” He smiles fondly at the memory.

“Anyway,” he interrupts himself. “I might as well introduce myself since we’ll be practically related if they ever get on with it. I’m Flint,” he thrusts his large paw at Demelza and then Dwight, who has to let go of Ross to shake it. 

Flint rests his hands on his hips. “Now that we’re all acquainted, what did our dear old boy do to himself this time?”

Neither Dwight nor Demelza speaks. Demelza looks to Dwight to take the reins, “I didn’t actually see it. I was … distracted. But I was there for the puking.”

“He managed to fall down and crack his head on the bartop. He was out for a few minutes. And then, yeah, he puked.”

“A lot,” Demelza adds. “He got it all over my leather jacket.”

“So, you’re looking to make sure that he doesn’t have a concussion, then. I’ll take a quick look and you can get out of here a lot quicker than waiting around in the waiting room on a Friday night. Besides, Jim probably won’t be back for a while, he got sent out on an urgent call, and I haven’t heard an ETA.”

 

* * *

 

“Did you sort out whoever was causing a racket in my E.R.?” Silver grumbles.

Flint grins. “Yeah, it was Jimmy’s boy.”

Silver snorts, “You better not let him catch you calling him that.”

“I know, I know, I’d be on the right path for a smacked bottom,” Flint looks up from the discharge paperwork that he is filling out. “I do wish something would happen though. Jim won’t talk about it, but he’s not as opaque as he likes to think.”

SIlver agrees, “No, he’s not. He’s always pretty much worn his heart right out there on his sleeve. He was more open and at ease with it when he was younger, and then he changed.”

Flint looks up, his eyes are wide with revelation, “What if I gave him Jim’s number?”

Silver raises his eyebrows.

“What?”

“It’s your funeral.”

“There’s no way he’ll get that mad about it,” Flint scoffs, “You’ve seen him.” He gestures in the direction of Ross.

“As I said.” Silver walks away leaving Flint by himself.

“Goddamn, you’d think I was trying to give away his social security number or something,” Flint mutters. 

Flint returns to the bed Ross was assigned to. “He’s all good to go once he signs this,” he hands a clipboard over to Ross.

“Next time how about you don’t smack your big dumb head on things,” Demelza scolds, frowning. “I don’t like spending my evenings here. It’s much less enjoyable than the alternative.”

Flint holds up the neon pink sticky note. “I also have this if one of you wants to hold on to it for lover boy until he’s completely sober.”

“I can take it,” Dwight intercepts Demelza’s reaching hand. “What is it?”

“It’s Jim’s number.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought that NaNo would help me build up a stockpile of chapters, but instead I am getting monster chapters that I can't break apart. I am getting a stockpile, but just not as many as I wanted.

**Chapter Ten**

 

December 25

**5:00am**

 

Jim stretches luxuriously beneath his duvet. The room is more brightly lit than he expected, but a quick glance at the large, nearly floor to ceiling windows, reveals the thick blanket of snow that fell the night before. It reflects the light of the full moon and lights the world in an eerie, otherworldly way.

He pulls on his plush plaid robe and pads to the kitchen. Admiral winds around his ankles and Jim scratches his ears absentmindedly. “How you feeling, boy?” A loud MRAWR is the cat’s only answer.

He groggily rubs the sleep from his eyes as he pours food into Admiral’s bowl. He preps the coffee maker and attempts to pull his short hair into some semblance of order. He looks at Admiral, “I need to get a haircut.” 

Admiral ignores him.

“Have I ever told you that you’re a sparkling conversationalist?” Jim waits for a response. “Well, if I did, I lied.”

The coffee percolates and fills the small kitchen with the rich, nutty smell of hazelnut. Jim poured a cup and made his way back to the bedroom where he fished compression gear and sweats from his dresser. Once he had wiggled his way into tight black pants and thrown a sweatshirt he grabbed his keys and a hat and made his way out the door with the coffee mug balanced precariously in his free hand. 

The roads were empty at this hour on Christmas morning. His car is the only one in the boathouse’s parking lot. He grumbles as he climbs out of his car; his coffee is long gone, and the drive was never quite long enough to thoroughly heat the freezing interior in the winter or cool it during the summer months.

The boathouse is dimly lit on the best of days. He carries his oars down to the end of the dock and then Jim locates his single and hoists it on his shoulder and makes his way out the doors and down to the river. Ice has begun to form on the edges of the bank, it could get cold enough this winter for the river to freeze over, and he would have to resort to land workouts. He slowly lowers the boat into the water where it rocks gently. He plants one foot on the seat between the slides and gingerly lowers himself on to the seat. He keeps one hand firmly on the dock as he removes his shoes and puts them on the edge of the dock and straps his stocking feet into the footboards. Then he takes one oar and locks it into place. The other one follows. 

Jim takes a deep breath. Any anxiety that he was feeling always dropped away when he was on the water. Anything that was bothering him on land always fell away as soon as the oars dipping in the water. Even when things were at their worst with Adam the river always cured all ills—even if only temporarily. Today, he is out running dark curls and a bright smile, because those things cause more trouble than their worth. He pulls the hat down over his ears. He sets his phone up to track his distance, tucks the earbuds in, and starts his playlist. He draws in the oar nearest the dock and pushes the boat away from the dock. The slice of the oars in the water and the drive of his legs swiftly carries him upstream.

Nearly 20 minutes later he stops and breathes heavily. His breath creates large clouds as he pants in exertion. His legs tremble as he uses a single oar to turn the boat around. The river is a sheet of silver in the moonlight. He pauses and lets the current carry him for a few moments. The oars rest flat on the water and Jim stares at the banks and tries to imprint the silence, the stillness, the beauty in his mind.  

But a pair of hazel eyes interrupts his peace. A furrow appears between his eyebrows and he takes the oars in hand again and wiggles his toes in the shoes to keep them from going numb. He slides up to the catch, dips the oars in the water, and pushes with all his strength.

 

* * *

**9:00am**

 

“You’re supposed to be up already! You said you would help with the turkey! You promised that I wouldn’t have to do this!” Each statement is accompanied by an open hand pounding on the old wooden door. “If you don’t let me know that you’re alive in there then I’m coming in!”

Ross groans and pulls his duvet over his head. “Go away.” 

The door is flung open and it bounces off the doorstop and the _boing_ of the spring resounds loudly in the small room.

“I said I was awake,” Ross grumbles.

“I didn’t hear you,” Elizabeth says primly. “Now get up. You promised.”

“I know I promised, but that was before Charles starting practically pouring egg nog down everyone’s throats.”

“You could have gone to bed at a reasonable hour,” she puts her hands on her hips. “Now. Up.” She grabs for the duvet and starts to drag it off him.

Ross bolts upright snatches it back. “JESUS. I’ll get up! Just go away while I do it?”

Elizabeth narrows her eyes. “I don’t trust you.”

“I _promise_ I’ll be down in 10 minutes if you just GO AWAY.”

“You also promised that you would be up on time. And we both know how that turned out. I’d rather stay to see the promise actually fulfilled.”

“For Christ’s sake,” Ross snaps. “I sleep in my underwear and that’s something I’d rather you not see!”

Elizabeth laughs. “Alright. It’s not like I haven’t seen it before.” She disappears out the door.

“Should I tell my cousin that you you spend your time looking at other men rather than watching his children?” Ross shouts after her. “Can you bring me some ibuprofen while you’re at it?”

Her laugh is the only response. She has left the door open.

Ross falls back on the bed, his head aching with the movement. “Hair of the dog it is then,” Ross mutters to himself. 

He closes his eyes for a moment and contemplate trying to get some more sleep. But Elizabeth is likely to send her children up to jump on him, and there always seems to be a knee that is inopportunely placed. Or she might return herself with a bucket of snow or ice water. 

He stares at the sharply slanted dormer ceilings that drop low over the narrow single bed. Blu-Tac and pushpin holes litter the area above his head; remnants of his teenage years when almost every square inch of the room had been covered in posters. Being back in the bed in his old room was always a little odd. He always felt like a kid again, especially when Elizabeth decided to scold him for things, but, at the same time, he was reminded how much had really changed. 

 

* * *

**9:00am**

 

“How’s your morning been so far?” Flint asks. 

Jim keeps his eyes on his work, suturing a cut hand, the victim of difficult packaging on children’s toys combined with a pocket knife. “Fine.”

“Get any interesting phone calls or texts lately?” A grin tugs at Flint’s  lips. 

Jim glances up. “Unless you mean the once daily text from you asking me that very question, then no. Why?”

“There’s just an odd telemarketing call going around.

“I’ll catch you later.”

Jim watches him walk away and turns back to his patient. 

“He’s an odd one,” the man comments calmly while he watches Jim carefully tie another suture. 

“Normally, not so much. But he’s been obsessed with my phone and phone calls for a few weeks now.”

The patient grunts and frowns at his hand.

Jim automatically apologizes. “I can apply more topical anesthetic if you can you feel it.”

The man flaps his free hand. “It’s not that. There’s just pressure and you did warn me about that. I just feel ridiculous that I did this while trying to open my granddaughter’s new Barbie doll.”

Jim smiles, “I’ve seen far worse injuries for far sillier things especially around the holidays.”

“I bet,” the man laughs, “I think I hear about someone burning their house down while trying to deep fry a turkey, or is it a turducken every year now.

“Have you ever tried anything like that, son,” the man asks genially. 

“My holidays are rather small these days. It’s usually a single turkey breast if we bother to cook at all.”

“I remember those days. Now there are 50 people in my house. You’ll miss the quiet someday,” he laughs. 

Jim nods but does not answer. 

The patients starts up the conversation again. “Did you draw the short straw to work today?”

“Something like that.”

 

* * *

**12:00pm**

 

Nampara house glows warmly in the cold light of the winter sun. Multi-colored lights twinkle merrily from the eaves, light pours from the windows which are open to relieve the oppressive heat of too many bodies in the close rooms and the constant heat of the oven. The constant light flickers as people walk back and forth in front of the windows. And the whole world is blankets in thick, white snow. The driveway is full of cars, and a handful of small children play in the backyard where they have been banished to wait for supper and to keep them from peeling the edges of wrapping paper back.

“What are you doing in the kitchen with the women,” Charles booms too loudly. His nose is red and his eyes unfocused. The party had started with Christmas punch which was generously seasoned with rum shortly after 9am. 

Ross smiles at his uncle good-naturedly having drunk his fair share of the Chrismas punch and the different bottles of magical colors that followed it.

“Because this is where the cookies are,” Ross scoops up an orange Christmas tree that was decorated with red hot sprinkles and purple jimmies. 

“Good lad.” Charles pounds Ross on the back. “I feared that you had decided that the women were better company!”

Once he is gone Elizabeth says acidly, “The best thing about Christmas is that he is still a drunk, but at least he is a happy drunk for once.” She punches down rising dough with more force than is strictly necessary.

“Have some of the punch, Bets,” Ross wheedles, pouring a glass and using her childhood nickname. “You need to relax a little.” He smiles widely.

“How about you pour me some to?” Verity asks as she emerges from the pantry. She drinks deeply from the bright red punch. “The other good thing about Christmas is that my dad shares his drink mixing skills with more people than his own gullet.

“All we need now is some music.”

Elizabeth fishes her phone from her pocket and connects to the speakers and the dulcet tones of choir Christmas music filling the room.

Ross squints in distaste. “How about something a little more this century?”

Elizabeth sticks her tongue out in response.

“When you get a phone from this decade, Ross, you can choose the music,” Verity says.

“You just want me to get that silly app that you all are sharing ridiculous videos on. If I got them to what on earth would we ever talk about. I’d already know all the silly things that Geoffrey had managed to get up to.” He reclines against the island and reaches for another cookie.

Verity smacks his hand away. “Don’t fill up on cookies! I’ve spent all afternoon on this ham with crackling.”

Ross raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “Do you really think a few cookies is going to keep me from devouring as much of that ham as possible? It’s the only reason I’m here,” he teases.

“Mmhmm,” Verity nods.

Ross sneaks a cookie as soon as her back is turned. “Have some more punch, Bets, you still look a bit tense.”

 

* * *

**2:00pm**

 

Everything got louder and roudier as suppertime approached. The children came in from the backyard whining, “When do we get to open presents,” and demanding hot chocolate. This normally simple task was complicated by the fact that every pot and pan in the kitchen was being used for something. One for mashed potatoes, another for gravy, cranberry sauce, and all manner of other things. They had to make do with the powdered packets that their grandfather kept in the house. They accepted the drinks grudgingly; there was some grumbling about the lack of marshmallows.

“My mother would have scolded me if I had complained like that; on Christmas no less.”

“Don’t be a Scrooge,” Verity scolds him. “Besides, your mother would have done no such thing. She probably would have run out to buy marshmallows for you before you had a chance to complain.”

“Well, we were never that poorly behaved.”

Elizabeth bursts out laughing, “Are you serious? I would probably die if any of my children were as annoying as you were when we were little. When you weren’t around your Aunt Grace would call you a spoiled little brat!”

“She did not!” Ross protests. 

“Oh yes she did!” Franck’s appears in the doorway. He leans on it and watches the whole room. “She loves to talk about how rotten you were because it made Verity and I look like angels!”

Ross is about to respond when a faint ringing reaches the kitchen.

“Can you get that, Ross?” Verity asks, holding up her messy hands as evidence for her own unsuitability for the task.

“This isn’t over,” Ross points at Francis and Verity.

 

* * *

**5:00pm**

 

“Can we _please_ open the presents now,” Geoffrey whines and tugs at his mother’s hand.

“You’ll have to find Grandpa and ask,” Elizabeth responds. She extricates herself so that she can put the newly cleaned dinner dishes away.

“We ate dinner,” Geoffrey ignores his mother’s response. “I even at that funny pie.”

“It was a pecan pie,” Elizabeth corrects.

Geoffrey rolls his eyes in a way that only the prepubescent can.

 

* * *

**5:30pm**

 

“You have to wait, Geoff.” Elizabeth blocks Geoffrey from grabbing for another present with his name on it.

“Everyone’s opened one!” He protests. “It’s my turn again.

“Your Uncle Ross hasn’t got one yet.”

Geoffrey frowns. “I couldn't find one with his name on it.”

“You must not have looked hard enough, I know there are a few in there,” Verity moves and starts to shift the remaining presents.

“It’s fine,” Ross interrupts, “Let the poor kid open another one.” He laughs at the sheer joy that alights on Geoffrey’s face.

Dwight nudges Ross’ arm. “Here’s one that’s not in the pile.” He hands over a small envelope.

Ross slides his finger beneath the flap and starts to tear.

Francis does not miss the interaction, “What do you have there, Ross?”

Ross pulls the card out and open it to reveal a hot pink post it note. “I don’t know,” he looks quizzically at Dwight.

“I got it a few weeks ago, but figured it would make for a decent surprise,” Dwight explains.

“Okayy,” Ross says slowly, “But what is it?”

Francis, who is looking over Ross’ should by this point, says “Well, it’s obviously a phone number.

“Your mother’s, Dwight?”

Dwight pointedly ignores Francis. “It belongs to a certain doctor.”

When realization dawns, Ross beams and his smile lights up his entire face.

 

* * *

**6:00pm**

 

“Do you need anything before I leave?” Flint asks.

Jim looks up from his magazine and checks his watch. “You’re shift was over 2 hours ago, what are you even still doing here?”

“I got pulled into a case and it took a lot longer than anticipated.” Flint hikes his bag up further onto his shoulder. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

Jim’s eyebrows furrow, “What would I need from you right now?”

Flint shrugs a single shoulder, “I don’t know. An invitation to Christmas dinner?”

Jim’s laugh is short. “I’m working a double today, Flint. I doubt your mother wants to hold dinner that long.”

Flint purses his lips. “Not hold dinner, but she could hold back leftovers. You know she likes you and you’re more than welcome to join us.”

Jim turns back to his magazine. “I’m fine. Silver and I are having dinner tomorrow.” He glances up at Flint, “And don’t look at me like I’m a lost puppy. I don’t need to be adopted.”

“But—”

“Flint. We go over this every holiday. Silver and I are family. We have meals together, and just because there aren’t 50 people present does not mean that they aren’t real holidays.”

“I know. I’m just letting you know that you have a standing invitation to holidays at my mother’s. She adores you, though I can make no promises about her matchmaking attempts.”

Jim laughs, “I wish you the best of luck with that and I’ll see you later if you survive.”

 

* * *

**7:00pm**

 

Verity pulls another tray of chocolate cookies from the oven. Andrew snags one and tosses it back it for between his hands swearing quietly.

“Well, that’s what you get,” Verity scolds good naturedly.

“You’re cookies are too good to wait for,” Andrew smiles and presses a kiss to his wife’s cheek.

Verity smiles, “You’re incorrigible.”

“I know.”

Verity rolls her eyes and sets a timer for 5 minutes and starts to scoop more dough onto the empty cookie sheet. 

Andrew reaches for another cookie, but Verity moves her body to block him. He laughs. 

“You’re going to burn your tongue at this rate and I’m going to have to listen to you complain about how you cannot taste anything for days.”

“But they’re sooo gooood,” Andrew wheedles and while Verity his distracted by his words and her task he grabs another cookie and nearly drops it when his wrist hits the edge of the still oven hot sheet.  

The timer goes off and Verity swaps her spoon for a metal spatula. Andrew crowds her against the counter and nuzzles his face into her neck, she giggles. 

She turns within his arms, and teasingly shakes the spatula at him, “You…”

Andrew takes her hands and starts to dance.

“What on earth,” Verity laughs. 

Ross smiles as he watches the whole exchange. He loves seeing Verity this happy after so many years of her thinking that she would end up living in her father’s house and taking care of him in his old age, but the smallest part of him his jealous her of happiness, but he shoves away that feeling and the bitter thoughts that come with it.

Andrew twirls Verity using her free hand, the pair of them giggling, and Verity ignoring the new timer that is going off.

“Ow!” Verity cries out, startled. The spatula clatters to the floor in the sudden silence.

Andrew instantly releases her hand. “Are you okay?” His voice is higher than usual.

Verity’s hand is clasped to her cheek. Her voice shakes when she answers, “I think so.” She pulls away her hand. A smear of bright blood streaks across her cheek and hand.

“Shit,” Andrew swears. “I’m sorry.” 

He quickly moves to grab a towel and ice from the freezer. He presses it to her cheek. Verity winces away, but takes the cold bundle from her husband’s hands. She touches his arm gently. “It’s fine.” She laughes, “That’ll teach me to dance with utensils.”

Andrew does not laugh. “What can I do?”

“You’ve done everything that I need, babe.” Verity looks at him softly. She pulls the bundle away and sees that it is still actively bleeding. “It’ll stop bleeding in a few minutes.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“And if it doesn’t,” Verity replies calmly, “we’ll take care of it. Either way, I can promise you that I am fine.”

Francis chooses that moment to appear in the kitchen. His eyes dart from Verity holding ice to her face, to the smear of blood on her hand and on her shirt, to Andrew’s darkened expression.

“What did he do to you?” Francis demands.

Verity rolls her eyes. “Oh. Francis. Why must you assume the worst possible scenario?”

“What happened then?” Francis crosses his arms across his chest. Verity rolls her eyes and does not answer him and Andrew is too focused on her to care about her brother’s snit.

 

* * *

**7:30pm**

 

“Here, let me take a look.” Andrew takes the bundle, which is now damp with melting ice from Verity’s face.

He frowns.

“Is it still bleeding?”

“I’m afraid so.” He gently prods the wound. “You might actually need stitches.”

“It’s not the end of the world, Andy,” Verity shrugs. She puts the cloth back to her face.

“All because of a damn spatula,” he grumbles. He speaks up, “I’ll take you.”

Verity shakes her head, “You’re not driving. You’re too worked up about this and we’re likely to wind up in a ditch. You can come along, but you’re most certainly not driving.” Verity looks around the room at the remaining guests—mostly family members.

Charles is too far gone to even consider him as a responsible adult. Francis is no where to be seen.

Elizabeth holds her hands up, “Don’t look at me. I can’t drive in the dark, especially with any melting snow with my astigmatism.”

Ross stands and pulls his pants up a little. “I guess that leaves me.”

Andrew stands and makes his way to the hall closet.

“I think you should stay,” Verity says.

Andrew turns, the hurt is clear on his face, “Why?”

“It’s the E.R. on Christmas, dear. It’ll be busy and we’ll probably be waiting for hours. I’d rather you be here enjoying yourself rather than sitting in hard plastic chairs suffering with us.”

Andrew sighs and puts his coat back on its hanger.

 

* * *

**9:47pm**

 

“Verity Poldark-Blamey?”

“About fucking time,” Ross grumbles, not looking up from his greatly worn paperback.

Verity smacks the side of his leg in admonishment. “Here,” she stands. She turns to Ross, “Are you staying here or coming with me?”

“I’ll come,” Ross stuff his book into the back pocket of his jeans and rises to follow Verity. “I told Andrew that I’d keep an eye on you.” 

Verity rolls her eyes. “You two; you seem to think that I need a babysitter.”

Ross makes a noncommittal noise and watches his black boots on the linoleum floor as he follows her. Verity is led to a room where an intern takes Verity’s blood pressure and asks questions that were already answered on the paperwork that she filled out. 

Ross pulls out his book and started reading again during all of this. He sinks further into the chair with his long legs stretched out in front of him. His torso is bent into a deep “c” curve and his dark hair hangs in his eyes.

“Ross,” Verity hisses when they are alone. She pushes his knee with her foot. “Sit up.”

Ross slouches further. He does not look up when the door opens again. He only looks up when the doctor introduces himself.

“Hello, I’m so sorry for your wait today. We’ve been kept quite busy today with the holiday. My name’s Jim Hawkins, Verity,” paper rustles as Jim flips open her chart.

“Poldark-Blamey,” Ross supplies sitting up and laying his open book across his thigh.

Verity does not miss the widening of Jim’s eyes when he notices Ross’ presence. 

“Sister?” Jim asks.

“Cousin.”

Jim nods and turns back to Verity. “How about I take a look at your cut?” He places the clipboard on the countertop and steps closer to Verity.

Verity nods. She lowers the kitchen towel. It’s ice had melted long ago, but it served as a way of absorbing the blood that still leaked from the wound. 

Jim gently probes the edges of the wound. “You told my intern that this was caused by a spatula?”

Verity starts to nod, but catches herself. “Yes. I feel pretty silly about the whole thing.”

“There’s nothing to feel silly about,” Jim assures her. He steps back having finished appraising the small wound. “What was the spatula being used for?”

“I was going to use it for cookies.”

“Had it been used for anything else before that?” Jim picks up the chart again.

Verity shakes her head. “No. It was clean. I don’t even think I used it to get a single cookie off the sheet before this happened.”

“We can skip the heavy duty antibiotics since we don’t have to worry about raw meat or anything like that. I’m going to get some supplies and then I irrigate the cut, put down some iodine, and we’ll use some butterfly bandaids.” Jim makes a note on her chart.

“Bandaids?”

“Yes. The wound is shallow with clean edges. It’s only bleeding because it’s a facial wound and the skin is being held apart by the normal tension that we find in the face. Butterfly bandages will hold the skin together and it will clot and stop bleeding fairly quickly.”

Verity exhales. “Thank goodness. I was worried that I would be like this one,” she gestures to Ross, “running around with stitches in my face.”

Jim smiles. “No need to worry about that, Mrs. Poldark-Blamey. After about 24 hours you’ll be able to remove the butterflies and no one will be the wiser.”

When Jim returns with the necessary supplies Verity asks, “How’s your Christmas been so far?”

Jim opens the package of iodine. “Busy. It is Christmas after all.”

“Did you spend the morning with your family?”

“Verity—” Ross starts noting that flash of an expression that crossed Jim’s face.

“It’s fine,” Jim interrupts. “I’ve been getting these questions all day.

“I’m working a double shift today. I started at 6am and I won’t get off for another,” he checks his watch, “another hour and a half, at 11pm.”

Verity’s eyes widen in surprise. “Really?”

Jim shrugs while he applies the iodine. “They’re not that bad, especially when its busy. You don’t have time to feel tired.”

“How does your family take it?” 

Ross shoves Verity’s foot with his own and shoots her a warning look. She pointedly ignores him.

“It’s only me and my godfather actually,” Jim says, his tone is flat, the animation that had been there a moment before is gone. “And he works here too. You probably saw him, because he’s running the E.R. today. We usually get together on the day after, or the next day that we’re both free and he makes a ham, potatoes, those sorts of things, we exchange gifts, watch Christmas movies,” Jim shrugs, “We really just spend the day together and eat food.

“It’s actually been better the last few years. He decided that he wanted to learn how to cook in his old age. He’s actually pretty good at it and everything is homemade. We used to order it, and it was never that good.” He laughs, but it does not reach his eyes.

Verity’s face fills with compassion. “I’m so sorry.”

Ross moves to knock her foot again, his expression stormy, but she deftly crosses her leg to avoid him.

Jim opens the butterfly bandages and carefully applies them and wipes away the excess iodine with a cloth. “It is what it is.

“You’re all done.” He steps back. “As I said you’ll be able to remove the butterflies in about 24 hours—once the scab forms and solidifies.

“And you’re good to go. I hope you have a great rest of your Christmas evening.” Jim leaves the room.

“I’ll be right back,” Ross says quickly to Verity before darting out the door.

“Jim!” Ross easily jogs down the hall to catch up.

Jim turns. “Do you have a question?”

“Yeah, but it’s not about Verity, or anything medical,” Ross warns.

Jim makes a gesture for Ross to continue.

“You said that you’ve spent all day working and that you don’t have any plans.”

“That is correct,” Jim crosses his arms holding the chart to his chest.

“My family’s Christmases usually go well into the small hours of the morning and there is usually quite a few friends that are present. If you would like to stop by, eat something, play a game, you’d be more than welcome.”

This time Jim’s smile reaches his eyes—crinkles appear at the corners of his blue eyes. “That would be nice. Thank you.”

“I’ll give you the address,” Ross pats his pockets looking for a pen.

Jim hands over one of his without being asked. 

“Thanks.” Ross pulls the book from his pocket and flips to the last page and scrawls out an address in a script that is almost illegible. He quickly tears the page free—Jim flinches—and hands it over. 

“There are not many houses on the road. Our is set back a bit, but it’ll be brightly lit and there are multicolored lights, and red, ribbon bows running down the stone fence along side the road.”

 

* * *

**11:35pm**

 

Jim roughly towels off his legs. He yawns deeply and rubs at his eyes. His wet feet slip on the cold hardwood floor when he leaves the bathroom. He avoids turning on any lights—because if he does he will have to turn them off or fall asleep with them on and wake up in a few hours only to drag himself to the switch and back to bed, most likely stubbing his toe along the way— and feels around on the floor by his bed for the pajamas that he left there just this morning, even though it feels like it was eons ago and he feels like he is forgetting something. He pulls back the duvet and—

Falls asleep almost before his head hits the pillow. 

 

* * *

**December 26**

**12:30am**

 

Ross’ finger twitch, but he refuses to check his phone again. One o’clock had come and gone and Jim had not shown, nor had he reached out to explain his absence. Instead of reaching for his phone he reaches for the bottle of whiskey. He fills the glass nearly to the rim and then takes a long pull from the bottle itself. 

“Ross! You should come play pool with us,” Francis shouts from the other side of the room.

“No thanks,” Ross says shortly. “I’m calling it a night.” He turns to leave the room.

“Hey, what’re you doing with my whiskey!” Charles booms boisterously. “That stays here.”

“I think I’ll have more need of it than you will,” Ross mutters. The bottle dangles between his fingers and he drains the glass before mounting the stairs. He leaves the glass on the post at the top.

Ross drops heavily on to the twin bed. He discards his shoes and leans back, his head and shoulders resting against the cold wall. He props the bottle against his pillow and pulls out his phone. He stares at the new contact that he created less than twelve hours before— _Jim._ He cannot summon utter joy he had felt upon creating the contact. He resents the fact that he felt that way and that he currently feels the way that he does. He checks his messages and missed call log even though he already knows that nothing will be there. After another drink selects Jim’s name and starts to compose a message.

 

> _— If you’re going to pull a fucking no show you could at least text. —_

He backspaces.

 

> _— Why would you say you’d come if you weren’t? Prick. —_

He deletes everything again. Another drink. Charles and Francis’ voices drift up the stairs. If they keep it up Elizabeth is going to give them what for.

 

> _— Really? —_

Ross frowns and deletes it again.

 

> _— if youre not interested you should just say so don’t fucking jerk me around —_

Deleted.

He types a stream of consciousness message that he never intends on sending.

 

> _— if you cant be bothered to text me when youre not going show up fuck you i’m not going to text you im not some clingy asshole —_

He stares at this message before deleting it.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes. He rubs his face and looks at the screen tiredly. He chucks the phone into his open duffle and looks out the window at the snow covered yard. What had started out pristine, clean, and perfect, had been quickly ruined by the tramping feet of Geoffrey and Frankie. Snow angels litter the yard. Ross can see the children’s, but he also spots adult-sized imprints in the snow. He even spots one that can only belong to Andrew. Ross wriggles out of his jeans and wraps himself in an afghan, all of his bitter thoughts and jealousy returning in the dark silence of the room. When he finally falls asleep the mostly empty bottle sits by his bed and he dreams of blonde angels with dimples, blue eyes, and wings made of snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **hides**


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim learns that Flint is not a great wingman and Ross plays with his niece and nephew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An early update for your holiday travels!
> 
> What was supposed to be a single chapter has to be broken into 3. Otherwise you would a _giant_ update and then a long break. (This one is still 4k words, though!)
> 
> I apologize for the typos. I'll be back and clean it up after NaNo is over.
> 
> (The kick in Jim's pants is coming soon. I promise!)

**New Year's Eve**

 

“Are you going to tell me why you’ve been bothering me about texts and phone calls?” Jim asks after he toes off his shoes in Flint’s apartment.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Flint disappears into his kitchen and returns with a bag of chips and cheese dip.

Jim snorts. “You’re about as subtle as a gunshot, buddy.” Jim sits down on the couch and props his fit up on the oversized ottoman. “Something’s up. And I would like to know what.” He points his finger at Flint. “And don’t try to sell me that load of crap about a  _ funny _ telemarketing call.”

Flint nods, but disappears again. When he reappears he’s carrying two glasses of water. He hands one to Jim without a word and takes his seat and flips the television on where the commentators are talking about the two teams’ seasons and what each one stands to lose if they lose the game. 

“I gave your number to that Ross Poldark.” Flint pauses to take a drink.

“Wha—“ Jim’s cheeks flare red.

“Don’t,” Flint holds up a hand, “I knew when I did it that you wouldn’t like it. But I did figure that he would have texted or something by now. It’s been a month.”

Jim yanks his feet down and clenched his fists in front of him and stares at them. He takes several deep breaths before he can speak. “I can’t believe that you did that.”

“Sorry,” Flint mumbles. “I honestly thought that good would come from it. You and him have been dancing around each other for months. And I figured that you could use some happiness.”

Jim looks up the screen where men in brightly colored uniforms are running around the emerald green pitch. “I am happy, Flint. You know that not everyone needs to be in a relationship?” He snaps.

Flint shifts and looks steadily at Jim. “I just figured you two could have a good time. Maybe you could see someone who doesn’t work at the hospital; maybe have plans that consist of more than rowing and television. That’s no way to live.”

“And why the fuck do you get to decide that the way I’m living isn’t the right way?” Jim snarls. He turns to face Flint and his anger flares brightly and swells.

Flint’s eyes widen in surprise—Jim never swears—and then they narrow at his tone.

Jim pauses and seems to pull him in. He appears to shrink down as the fury disappears from his face. “Sorry.” He sits up and runs his hands through his short hair. “No harm done, it’s not like he’s called me or done anything with it.”

Flint looks at him appraisingly, “Do you really not like him?”

Jim groans and rubs his face. “I do like him. I think about him far too much for someone that I don’t even really know.”

“Then what’s the problem?” 

“I just… I…” Jim shakes his head and turns his attention attention to the television. He takes another deep breath. “I’m sorry, Flint.” Jim glances in Flint’s direction, not meeting his eyes. “I had someone that made all the decisions for me for a while and I don’t react well when people take control. And make decisions for me.

“Who do you think will win?” He changes the topic before Flint can respond.

Flint frowns for a moment, but then responds to Jim’s question. The topic does not come up again.

 

* * *

 

“I’m going to get you!” Ross roars and chases after his nephew. 

Geoffrey runs away laughing. On the other side of the yard Frankie squeals in delight. Ross changes direction and stalks towards Frankie. Ross’ face contorts in his efforts to look fearsome, while trying not to laugh. His expression flashes in surprise when a snowball hits him on the back.

“That’s my sister, you monster!” Geoffrey shouts from his snow fort where he prepares to pelt more snowballs in Ross’ direction. The next one hits him in the face.

“Oi!” Ross protests roughly wiping the snow away from his eyes. “Not fair!”

“We don’t fight fair with monsters!” Geoffrey shoots back. He lobs a few more snowballs but they fall short of their mark.

“Oh really now?” Ross bends down to scoop up snow in his bare hands. He silently chides himself for not bringing winter gear with him. It’s all sitting in the back of his Jeep, but that was sitting at his apartment. Verity had insisted on picking him up because it would save on the gas. Ross had let her have her way, because they were all staying the night for the New Year’s Eve party. He had actually been tempted to skip it having spent so much time with his family over Christmas. He is pretty sure that he only just got over the resulting hangover. All of this meant that his winter gear was sitting useless in the backseat of the car, and that he was playing in the snow in his canvas sneakers, jeans, and coat—no hat, boots, gloves, or scarf. His fingertips are already numb from the cold. He lobs a few balls in Geoffrey’s direction. He does not bother aiming, but he slowly walks closer.

“Then I don’t have to play fair either!” Ross lunges forward and catches his nephew around the waist and stuffs a handful of snow down the back Geoffrey’s coat, beneath his sweater. When released he dances away trying to get the snow out of his clothes; it allows Ross to have a breather. He tucks his hands into his armpits beneath his coat and looks in the direction of the house. He can see Elizabeth and Verity talking and watching them through the large bay window. Ross waves a hand at them sarcastically. They wave back.

Having recovered from the “snow-down-the-sweater” incident Geoffrey flings himself at Ross’ legs, knocking him off balance. 

Ross recovers his balance and tugs the hat off of Geoffrey’s head and puts it on his own head, pulling it down over his ears.

“Gib my brudder his hat back, you big meanie!” Frankie joins in slapping Ross’ thighs ineffectually. Ross laughs and scoops her up before grabbing Geoffrey around the waist and spinning them.

Frankie shrieks in delight. Ross keeps spinning even once he starts to get dizzy. He starts losing his hold on Geoffrey’s puffy, blue winter coat. He tries to hike him up higher to get a better grip, but that only serves to allow Geoffrey to slip even further.

“Uncle Ross!” Geoffrey shouts as he flies free of Ross’ grip. Geoffrey lands softly in a pile of snow several feet away. He laughs and brushes himself off. “AGAIN!” he shouts.

Ross loses his balance once Geoffrey is no longer balancing the weight of Frankie. He starts to regain his balance. But his unreadiness for snow catches up with him. The soles of his sneakers slide on the ice beneath the snow and he is sent sprawling. Frankie lands free in the snow and giggles uncontrollably. Ross lands awkwardly on his left wrist. Pain shoots up his arm, but he just stands up and shakes it out. 

He looks up and catches the concerned glances from his cousin and cousin-in-law. Ross shrugs. 

“Are you okay, Frankie?”

The little girl smiles and asks, “Can we do that again? It was fun!”

“How about later,” Ross responds diplomatically.

Frankie grumbles a little, but quickly resorts to scooping up a handful of snow and tossing at Geoffrey.

Ross rubs his hands together and blows into them in an attempt to warm himself. Then he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his coat—wincing when the movement jars his wrist—and hunches his shoulders to ward off the cold wind that is whipping through the open spaces that surround the house. The nearest neighbors are nearly a mile away. That combined with the fact that there were only a few houses on the road and that the road did not lead anywhere interesting, nor could it be used as a shortcut to much of anywhere, meant that it was usually quiet. Ross stamps his feet to shake away the burn and numbness of the cold that had started to creep up his legs. But the sound does not travel far. He can feel the silence that surrounds the house. He smiles to himself remembering how as a teenager all he wanted was to be anywhere else, someplace exciting, someplace with things to do, but now, he loves this house and wishes that he had not turned it over Francis and Elizabeth to live in. He resents his small apartment where he can hear the clicking footsteps of his upstairs neighbor stomping around in her high heels, the constant squalling of the toddler who lived next door, the pounding footsteps of the young boys who lived beneath him. He does not enjoy being surrounded by the sounds of other lives.

The door of the house creaks open and Elizabeth steps out. Her arms are wrapped firmly around her chest in an effort to stave off the cold.

“Franks! Geoff! Why don’t you come inside and get warmed up? It’s going to get dark soon.”

“But, Moom…” Frankie whines, but she plods to her mother’s side before heading in, there is a bit of a struggle with the doorknob and her gloves.

“Your Aunt Verity has made you hot chocolate.”

Geoffrey’s tasseled head pops up over the edge of his fort. “The kind on the stove or the powder kind?” He pulls a face when he mentions the second kind of cocoa. 

“The stove kind.”

“Okay.” Geoffrey drops the snow shovel that he was using to further fortify his snow fort and heads for the door.

The children both disappear inside, but Ross looks up at the sky. Elizabeth was right, it was starting to get dark even though it was only the late afternoon. Purple was creeping in on the horizon, but it was probably a few hours until it would be completely dark.

“Ross?”

“Yeah?” Ross glances over his shoulder.

“Are you coming in?”

“I suppose.” Ross turns and follows her into the warm kitchen. His fingers tingle painfully as they begin to warm.

“You weren’t even wearing gloves?” Verity admonishes as she shoves a chipped mug into his hands.

Ross shrugs and places the mug on the counter so he can put his coat away. He also takes the opportunity to toe off his shoes and kick them into a corner. He reaches for his cup with his left hand. His wrist twinges uncomfortably, but he tries to tighten his grip as he raises it to his mouth. He blows on the drink softly and half listens to the chatter of the children. As he lowers the cup and leans back on the counter his wrist spasms and he drops the cup spilling hot cocoa all over the floor and the front of his clothing. “Fuck!” He swears.

“Ross! Language!” Elizabeth snaps before she even looks. “What happened?”

Ross brushes ineffectually at his clothing with his right hand while muttering under his breath. He looks up, “I just dropped it, is all.” He bends down to scoop up the cup.

Elizabeth shakes her head, “Clumsy.”

Verity moves closer to Ross. “Are you really okay?”

Ross deposits the mug in the sink before leaning against the counter and answering. “I think I tweaked my wrist when I fell,” he gestures to the snow-covered yard. He rolls his wrist experimentally.

“I saw that fall. It was pretty hard.” Verity’s face knits into an expression of concern.

“It’s nothing.” Ross moves away.

She moves to block his way. “You can’t even hold a cup,” Verity scolds. “Does it hurt?”

“A bit,” Ross admits while he tries to sneak past her.

“Are you sure that its not broken or anything like that?” 

Elizabeth starts to pay attention to the conversation since Geoffrey and Frankie had shed their winter things all over the floor and had disappeared into the living room with their own mugs off cocoa, probably at their mother’s insistence. “Really, Ross?” She grabs a towel and a wash rag to take care of his spilled drink.

Ross cannot see her, but he can hear her eye roll, but he is not sure what she is referring to. He feels annoyance blossom in his chest at the pair of them and their mothering.

“No. Actually, I’m not sure,” Ross snaps, “but it’s fine.”

“You should probably go in. If it is broken you don’t want to let it set like that,” Verity turns her head to address Elizabeth. “Remember when he broke all three bones in his arm when he was 5 and how he refused to tell anyone. The next morning his arm was so swollen that they couldn’t even put a cast on it.”

Elizabeth nods. “And they thought that Joshua and Grace were abusing him.”

“This isn’t that,” Ross growls.

“I still think you should have it checked,” Verity perists.

“No.” Ross slips around her and disappears into the living room with the children.

Verity and Elizabeth meet each other’s eyes and Verity rolls hers. “I guess we just watch him and if it gets worse we just make him go.”

 

* * *

 

By 10pm the party was in full swing. Frankie and Geoffrey had been sent to bed after they toasted the New Year with sparkling grape juice—everyone had laughed at the face Frankie had pulled at the taste. The house was nearly bursting with family and friends. Francis’ friends from work, Charles’ business associates, family friends, new friends all filled the rooms. Ross wanders through the full room looking for a place to sit. He cannot hear himself think, and he would prefer a quieter room. When failing to find a place to sit or a quiet room he steps out onto the patio without a coat to enjoy the silence and have a cigarette.

He has just lit up when the door slides open again.

“Hey,” Dwight says. “I haven’t seen much of you since I arrived.”

Ross grunts and rubs his wrist. “It’s loud.”

“Yeah,” Dwight shrugs. “So, have you called him yet?”

“Who?”

Dwight’s face falls and he looks away. “Oh.”

The silence stretches between the pair of them.

“So what have you been up to since Christmas?” Dwight asks, moving to what he hopes is a safe topic.

Ross takes a long drag before responding. “Working.”

“Has anything interesting happened?”

Ross looks out over the dark, snow-covered expanse and shrugs. 

Dwight waits for Ross to make any effort at continuing the conversation. When none is forthcoming he heads inside leaving Ross on the patio in the snow.

Ross watches Dwight’s back as he retreats. He sighs and looks away. “It’s not really fair to be a dick to people because you’re grumpy,” he mutters to himself, but he does not take his own advice. He stands outside stomping his feet and smoking until he can no longer feel his toes. He opens the door and finds the inside as oppressive as it was when he left. It is too warm, too loud, and too crowded.

He dodges his way through the crowded room with the pool table. Charles, Francis, and their guests have filled the room with smoke from cigars—Ross knows that Francis will hear about it tomorrow from Elizabeth—and several are sitting on the edges of the pool table with their drinks and snacks resting on the green felt. Ross moves through the crowd keeping an eye out for his cousin or his friends. He finds Verity, Demelza, Andrew, and Dwight sequestered in the small den. When Ross enters Dwight glances in his direction, but does not greet him. Ross squeezes past him without saying a word. The only empty chair is an over stuffed one in the back corner. Verity and Demelza are giggling together and Andrew is dealing out cards for a game. 

“We should probably wait for Elizabeth to return before we play,” Dwight says.

Andrew nods and turns to say something to Verity. 

Ross trips on someone’s shoe and bumps a bookshelf. “Shit!” he swears pulling his left hand to his chest.

Verity looks at him and raises her eyebrows.

“Sorry,” Ross grumbles. “But it hurt.”

“I bet it did.”

Ross flops himself into the chair and slouches. He starts to work his hand into his pocket to pull his phone free. The pocket is tight and he cannot get his left hand into the pocket. He contorts to get his right hand into the pocket to pull his phone free. He flips it open and starts idly clicking through old pictures and the settings.

Verity leans forward so that she can see past her husband. “Are you sure that you’re hand is fine, Ross.”

Ross looks at her from beneath lowered brows. “Yes,” he says shortly.

“Were you just being dramatic then when you bumped it?” She asks this calmly, but her eyes flicker with the knowledge that she has caught him unless he wants to outright lie.

Ross refuses to look up. He pretends to be absorbed in the alert sounds, all of which are at the default settings.

Demelza looks from Ross to Verity and and back again. “Am I missing something?”

Elizabeth chooses that moment to reappear and she had heard the last few sentences. “Well, dear Rossford here—”

Ross’ eyes snap up and flash dangerously.

“—fell outside while he was playing with the children. And he insists that he’s fine even though he can’t hold anything with that hand.”

“I can,” Ross retorts.

“What?”

Ross casts about for a truthful answer. “A cigarette,” he answers weakly, his annoyance extending to himself now.

Demelza looks at Ross, “You could see that doctor again—Jim was it?” She misses Dwight’s warning glance. “He gave his number to Dwight to give to you.”

Ross stands. “Fine. One you you concerned citizens can drive, since I am sure that none of you will let me drive myself.”

Verity’s face relaxes.

“But,” Ross raises his good hand, “I will only go if we go to the E.R. over in Portsmouth.”

“That’s well over an hour away!” Demelza protests, “Plus—” This time she does not miss Dwight’s signal. She pauses, “Why not just go to the Benbow?”

Ross frowns; unwilling to reveal his anger and hurt at being stood up. He had not shared that fact with anyone. And if he was honest with himself, he felt a little childish about the whole thing, not that that would change his stance about the whole thing. “Because if Jim is even working he’ll be busy,” Ross offers lamely.

“And what does that have to do with anything?” Demelza asks. “He’s probably been ‘busy,’” she makes air quotes with her fingers, “every time that you’ve seen him there.”

“Not every time,” Ross replies, unsure why he is even defending himself while he is doing it. “There was one time where he was on a break and I talked to him then.”

“And just  _ how  _ many times have you been to the hospital when you saw him?” Demelza counters.

Ross sucks his teeth and does not answer.

“Why don’t you just call him up and ask?” Dwight suggests innocently.

Verity looks at him.

Demelza is gleeful, “Oh, yeah, the phone number!”

“No,” Ross says flatly. “I’m not going to.”

Verity looks at Dwight, “Do you have the good doctor’s number?”

Dwight shakes his head. “No. I didn’t see the need until just now.” 

Verity pulls out her phone and taps out a quick text. A moment later Demelza’s phone vibrates. The two women meet each other’s eyes and Demelza stands.

“Give me your phone, Ross.” Demelza holds out her hand.

Verity rolls her eyes. “I could have done that.”

Demelza ignores Verity’s comment and keeps her focus on Ross.

Ross furrows his brow and looks from one woman to the other. “Jackals.”

“Name calling isn’t going to make this any easier,” Elizabeth says calmly. “You know V always gets what she wants in the end.”

Andrew nods with a wry smile on his face, “This is true.”

“Please don’t make me physically take it from you, Ross,” Demelza says.

“You and what army?” Ross retorts.

“Ross. You know I grew up with three brothers and one television. Do you know how many ears I pinched or bollocks I smacked to get the remote?” She cocks her hip out and stares at him steadily.

Ross takes a step back. His eyes are wary. “You wouldn’t.”

“Well, I might not smack you in the balls, you’re not my brother after all, but I would pinch your ear,” she says casually.

Ross tries to quickly stuff his phone in a pocket, and a scuffle ensues. 

Charles chooses to walk past the room at that moment.“What’s going on in here?” he booms.

Ross and Demelza freeze.

Verity takes the reins. “Nothing, Dad, Ross just best Demelza that he could beat her at arm wrestling, but I’m pretty sure he’s losing.”

“That’s shameful my boy! Losing to a girl,” he laughs at his own joke. All of the women in the room roll their eyes.

As soon as he is gone Demelza makes another grab for the phone, twisting Ross’ wrist, and free his phone.

Ross winces and twists away. “Fuck, Dem,” he groans gripping his wrist.

Demelza looks at him appraisingly. “I agree with V. I think there might actually be something wrong with that wrist. I barely touched you.”

Ross scowls and looks down at his wrist. He has not looked at is closely since right after he fell. He rolls his sleeve up. The joint is now swollen and he can no longer see the bones of his wrist. The skin is mottled with purple bruises.

Demelza hands the phone to Verity. She opens the contacts and finds Jim’s number. She calls. It starts to ring, but then she is sent to voicemail. She calls again and is sent to voicemail, again. Ross frowns as he watches. She calls again. This time it rings through and Jim answers. 

“Can I help you?” he snaps. The background noise is loud and Jim can be heard speaking to other people revealing that he was indeed busy and probably has the phone held between his shoulder and face.

“Are you too busy for an idiot with a broken wrist.”

“It’s not broken,” Ross hisses even though he knows that Jim will not be able to hear him.

Ross can hear Jim’s frown. “No. Of course not.”

There’s a rustling and the background noise drastically decreases even though they can still hear announcements over the speakers. “Who is this?”

Verity does not answer Jim’s questions. She asks her own. “Even if that idiot’s name is Ross Vennor Poldark?”

Jim’s laugh is short. “No. We’re not too busy. It’s still fairly early. We don’t have that many incidents filling up the waiting room just yet.

“What did he do this time? Did he try riding a bike on black ice or something else ridiculous.”

“No!” Ross says indignantly.

Verity flaps her hand at him to make him shut up.

“I’d never do something that stupid.”

Verity smacks his upper arm.

“He was playing in the snow and he fell.”

“Not surprising,” Jim replies. “That’s a pretty common injury during the winter.

“If you come in now, I should be able to see him pretty quickly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. We're getting close to an actual _date_ *gasp* but I need ideas! I don't know what to have them do! Let me know in the comments or on my Tumblr(s)!


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